


Angush's Snippets/Oneshots (SFW)

by TheAngush



Series: Angush's Oneshots/Snippets/Shorts [1]
Category: Worm - Wildbow
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7833481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAngush/pseuds/TheAngush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of snippets, oneshots, and test chapters (for things I can not yet fully commit to)—because while most of them are NOT connected, I'd rather not clutter my profile by making them individual works. </p><p>See also: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7833499">the NSFW equivalent of this</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arcadia - Not-1.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Preface:** Wrote this a while ago. There's a fair amount of problems with it, so I'd probably do a rewrite before turning it into a proper story, but I didn't want it just sitting around gathering dust. (4,633 words)

Arcadia was amazing, and I hadn’t even set foot on campus grounds yet.  
  
I stood close to the end of one of three not-very-long lines, students queued and waiting for their IDs to be checked and their admission slips to be stamped by the guards: of which there were a dozen, fully kitted-out with body armour, tasers, and foam sprayers.  
  
They were working quickly, but I was impatient. As was… well, pretty much everyone else. You couldn’t look at any of these queues for even a second without seeing a dozen cases of restless legs and shuffling. _Quickly_ wasn’t fast enough.  
  
Not that I was watching the students. Not really. Mostly, I was admiring the school itself. Or what I could see of it, anyway. The gates were huge and ornate, painted gold—or maybe made of it—with tiny lines of electricity visible running through them and the fences beyond.  
  
It was all mostly decorative, though. I mean, come on. Arcadia was a parahuman academy, as the front gate stated, one of only thirty-two in the United States. It didn’t need _fences_ to keep its students safe. Not when it had _shields_.  
  
A shimmering blue bubble encapsulated the entire campus—all sixty something acres—in an ellipsoid shape that rose a hundred metres or so up, and probably down, too. The surface was mostly transparent, the shimmering a pulsing effect that came and went like a wave, rippling down its surface every few seconds to remind people it was there, and that nothing anyone could do would even _scratch_ it.  
  
All academies had shields like this, but Arcadia’s was something special. It was the very same shield that Hero had built, all those years ago when the first of the Endbringers had appeared—long before I’d even been born. It had only ever been broken once, on the day he died. And somehow, it still worked, though nobody had ever managed to replicate it.  
  
I couldn’t even begin to imagine the electricity bill this place would have had to deal with, if it wasn’t self-sufficient.  
  
The guard at the head of my queue waved the kid in front of him past, and the line shuffled forward. I bit my lip and glanced over at the other lines as they all shuffled forward, too. Vicky was at the head of her own line, now. She’d clearly already had her ID scanned, as she was just handing over her bags to the guards. The guy she was talking to nodded, handed her ID back, and waved her past.  
  
Vicky glanced back at me as she walked through the gates, meeting my eyes as my line shuffled forward again. She grinned excitedly, but her expression dropped quickly. Guilt struck me, and not for the first time today. I didn’t doubt her change in expression coincided with her remembering what I’d told her this morning—that I’d be… distancing myself from her, at school. At least for the first few days. She’d been… upset, when I insisted on catching the bus to Arcadia instead of flying with her.  
  
I wanted to explain more. Explain _better_. But I couldn’t. She hadn’t understood this morning, and she wasn’t likely to understand now. I’d put it off too long, afraid of hurting her; which, of course, had just made it worse. Instead, I settled for a smile and a wave, and quietly hated how damn _hesitant_ it felt. Vicky returned the wave, then moved on, and my line shuffled forward again.  
  
“Next!” the guard called, looking at me. “ID?”  
  
I stepped forward and proffered my ID. She took it and stuck it in her little handheld card reader… thing.  
  
“Name and division?” she said.  
  
“Amelia Claire Dallon,” I said. “I-I’m a first-year in the hero program.”  
  
The guard nodded and looked up at me. “Will you consent to a body scan?”  
  
“Yes,” I said.  
  
She pulled another device off her belt and held it up to my face: a wide object that looked like one of those speed guns that police used. A green laser came out of it and scanned my face up and down. I tried not to blink; I didn’t want to mess anything up. After a second or two, the device beeped, and the lady moved it to scan my _body_ up and down, then waited until a second beep came.  
  
“All clear,” the guard said; then she gestured at my suitcase. “You’ll be living on-campus?”  
  
“Uh, yes.”  
  
“Okay,” she said, nodding. “Do you have a phone or laptop or any other electronic or tinkertech device on your person?”  
  
“Just my phone. It’s in my bag.”  
  
She nodded again, and another guard came up, not as heavily dressed or equipped as the others, and took my suitcase. “We’ll move it to your dormitory,” she said, smiling and crossing her hands as the other guard carried my bag off. “You can head on in now, Amelia. First-year inauguration is in hall three. Just follow the signs. Have a nice day.”  
  
I nodded. “Thanks!” I said, and rushed past her. I felt a slight tickling sensation as I passed through the rippling blue shield, then I was inside.  
  
I was _in_ Arcadia!  
  
I mean, I’d been here before, but only once, and that was just for the admission interview with the principal. I hadn’t really had a chance to look around.  
  
But now? Now, I was a student here. Like, officially. I’d be spending the next _three years_ of my life here—excluding holidays, of course—learning, training, making friends… hopefully…  
  
But no matter what happened, I was going to be a hero.  
  
I felt a grin split my face.  
  
_This is gonna be_ great _!_  
  
——————————————————  
  
I ran the whole way to the hall—it had to be closer to a quarter mile than not. There were concrete paths, but I kept off them. I preferred the grass; soft and perfect beneath my feet, the open soles of my shoes giving me contact and letting my power flow through nearly everything I touched.  
  
Each blade was perfect, and it was pretty clear the grass was biologically engineered to be that way. There were none of the tiny, subtle inconsistencies between each individual tuft’s biological structure. It was a field of perfect greenery. Not like the grass I’d always felt outside; the… inefficiency that made me want to _change_ things, to make them _better_. But that was… frowned upon, mom had told me, so I’d kept my modifications to the backyard.  
  
But here? This place, Arcadia, the academies… they were all about _powers_. _Not_ using them would be almost sacrilegious. And here, I didn’t have to hold back; at least, not quite as much. If I wanted to make perfect, self-propagating grass, I could. It probably wouldn’t stay perfect for long after it left my reach, but I could do it if I wanted to.  
  
Not that it was necessary.  
  
Jogging parallel to the concrete path, following the floating holographic signs that pointed me in the direction of my inauguration, I finally caught sight of my destination. I’d passed several buildings on my trip—one had actually passed _me_ ; it had been floating—and this one was… big.  
  
Not the biggest I’d seen here—that title went to the… stadium? Or arena? I wasn’t sure what the right name was—but it was still pretty big. It looked like you could fit a thousand kids in there, though that was probably underselling it… by a lot. I wasn’t great at… well, at measurements, I guess.  
  
There were multiple tall and wide garage-like doors along the longer sides of the building, all slid up so you could see straight through. And either I was very early—which I doubted; I’d been one of the last to get admission—or they didn’t intend to actually use all of that space quite yet. There were only about twenty-something other students there, or _maybe_ thirty. But thinking about it, that did make sense; term didn’t start for non-parahumans until Tuesday, and it was only Saturday now.  
  
It was oddly underwhelming, though, seeing how few of us paras there were at a school designed and built from the ground up _specifically_ for us.  
  
Jogging up to the doors, I studied my fellow would-be-heroes, all sitting on the floor close to the podium. Vicky was there, already chatting quietly with some raven-haired beauty, and I saw Eric looking around and absently tapping out a rhythm on his thigh. Nobody else I recognised. Interestingly, there did seem to be more girls than boys. I’d never really put much stock in the claims that girls triggered more often, but maybe it was true.  
  
I was surprised to find three kids sitting slightly off to one side of the rest of the group, wearing proper masks and costumes; two wore basic grey bodysuits and domino masks that went past their noses, while the third was clad in a slightly more complex, though incomplete costume, wearing segments of rough gunmetal grey armour on her—no, on _his_ arms, legs, and chest, with a red bodysuit underneath, his helmet a matching grey with a red visor covering the upper half of his face.  
  
As I got closer, I noticed one of the kids wearing domino masks—a girl—had a slick black substance wreathed about her body, almost like shadow taken physical form; in fact, knowing parahumans, that’s probably what it was. She—and the other masked person, also a girl—were talking to each other, while the armoured guy seemed to be answering questions from a boy and a girl who looked like they could be twins.  
  
A few others were wearing costumes too, though only those three had masks, and the other costumes were fairly simple. Victoria and Eric had parts of their costumes on, as did I, but not the whole thing; mine and Eric’s weren’t even complete yet.  
  
But other than my family, there was a dark-skinned girl wearing a midnight black coat that went down to her ankles—or I assumed it did; she _was_ sitting down, after all—with a black bodysuit underneath, and what looked like small metal plates, painted black and attached so they covered her vital areas. The hood on her coat was left down—otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to see her face—and attached to the inside was a hockey mask.  
  
Very edgy. My mother would hate her.  
  
Little Miss Edgy was surrounded by people—mostly girls—all of whom were talking quite animatedly with her. She looked like she couldn’t decide between being amused and being annoyed. There was also a blonde girl in a red-and-grey hooded robe of sorts; she sat alone, staring at the ground, and I noticed that not only were her fists tattooed with some kind of runic pattern, but they were also clenched and shaking. I guess she was nervous. Which made me realise I _wasn’t_ nervous. Which then _made_ me nervous. Dammit.  
  
There were a few others wearing very simple, piecemeal-like costumes, but most people just wore your regular high school attire—t-shirts, hoodies, shorts, skirts, and everyone’s favourite: jeans—occasionally with an accessory or two. Eric—my cousin—was sat there, too, his hair dyed a neon-blue and spiked like a comic book character, wearing track pants and a sports tee—one of those shirts with a white body and black sleeves, shoulders, and sides. I wasn’t sure why; he already had a costume. Which was more than I could say for myself.  
  
I shook my head and took a seat on the edge of the group, folding my legs beneath me and settling my hands in my lap to still their shaking; and just as I did so, a stunningly thin brunette entered my vision, walking and talking with a cute freckle-faced blonde, and then promptly walked into a wall; specifically, one of the thin supporting walls that separated each doorway.  
  
The blonde snorted, then clapped her hands over her mouth. She leaned forward, presumably to say something, but got cut off by a loud, sharp laugh from behind me. It was Little Miss Edgy. She looked right at the wall girl, who glared back.  
  
“Sophia,” wall girl said, pretty clearly struggling to not grind her teeth.  
  
Little Miss Edgy—err, Sophia smirked. “Hebert,” she said. “Having trouble already? That doesn’t bode well.”  
  
Wall girl, or Hebert—that had to be a nickname, or maybe her last name; no parent would name their daughter _that_!—raised an eyebrow. “Since when did you even know what ‘bode’ meant?”  
  
Sophia growled—actually _growled_!—baring her teeth a little, and not in a smile. Her body tensed in the telltale sign of someone about to jump to their feet, and—  
  
“Excuse me.”  
  
The new speaker was a short, somewhat chubby—or perhaps stocky—boy with a buzzcut and a surprisingly deep voice. He was standing behind Hebert and the blonde girl.  
  
“Are you alright?” he said, looking toward Hebert. “You hit that wall head-first.”  
  
Sophia snorted again, and the boy looked at her, his face weirdly expressionless. They looked at each other for a moment, then Sophia smirked and turned back to chat with her little group.  
  
“I’m fine,” Hebert said, smiling. Her mouth was rather wide. “I’m pretty hardheaded.”  
  
“That’s good,” the boy said, then moved past her and sat down.  
  
The blonde beside Hebert put a hand on her shoulder and whispered something in her ear, and Hebert nodded, then they both moved to take their seats, too. As they moved away, I saw another person behind them, rather far away, but approaching quickly. He—and I could see it was a boy now—sprinted up the path and came to a sudden stop just at the entrance; or at least, he tried to.  
  
He stuck one foot out to stop himself but, predictably, his shoe slid on the polished wood floor. He skidded forward a few inches, arms wheeling, then stumbled and fell as friction reasserted itself. But he turned the fall into a roll, and rose to his feet on the other side of the room in one smooth motion, as if it had all been planned. Then he ruined it by jerking his head around to stare at us.  
  
“Please tell me I’m not late,” he said.  
  
“You’re not late,” a deep voice chuckled just as a tall white-bearded man in a green and gold suit appeared with an audible _poof_ beside the boy, making him jump. The principal; I recognised him. “We weren’t going to start until everyone had arrived.”  
  
The principal patted the boy’s shoulder, then turned and strode toward the rest of us, making a slow circle around our group. Another _poof_ sounded, and I turned to see the principal now standing on the raised platform, behind the podium. His suit was now brown with a swirly orange pattern, his tie a matching design. He smiled. “But you’re all here now!” he said, clapping his hands together. “So! Welcome to Arcadia.”  
  
“Now, I’m sure you’re all very eager to get at it,” a voice said from behind me. I twisted. The principal was over there now, wearing green and gold again, holding his hands clasped behind his back as he circled our group and studied us. But I hadn’t heard a _poof_ … I looked back at the podium, where the brown-suited principal stood, then back at the green-and-gold one, then back again.  
  
There were two of them.  
  
Okay. Not the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen—though his suits were certainly in the running.  
  
“So,” the brown principal said, “I won’t keep you long. Just a few things I’d like to make clear. Most of this will have been covered by the pamphlets and welcome booklet we sent out last month, but—” he smiled “—there are always a few students who don’t read that, and some things are important enough to reiterate. So!”  
  
_Poof_. “First and foremost,” a _third_ principal said, holding up a finger. This one was clad in a white suit peppered with pink polkadots of varying sizes, and had appeared between our group and the podium where the brown principal… was standing…  
  
Ugh. This was going to get annoying. They needed identifiers…  
  
“I’m sure you’ve all noticed our three masked friends over here,” the white-suited one continued, gesturing toward the trio in question. “Unlike the rest of you, they have elected to keep their identities _secret_.”  
  
Principal-Beta—that is, the brown one—took over, his hands resting on the podium. “Their reasons for this are their own,” he said, still smiling. “The teaching staff are of course aware of their identities, and their reasons for keeping them secret, but the rest of you will know them only by their chosen identifiers.”  
  
“You will not attempt to discover their identities,” the green one continued, his expression stern. I decided to call him Alpha. “And _any_ attempts to do so will be met with _immediate_ expulsion, and they are to be treated with the utmost respect. Bullying is not tolerated at Arcadia.”  
  
“Furthermore,” Gamma—the white-suited one—said. “If any of these three students elect to _share_ their identities or any other information with any of you, you will be expected to keep that information to yourself.”  
  
“These students will reside in a separate dormitory building to the rest of you,” Beta said, “and will attend classes, training, and Arcadia events as either regular students, or as their hero personas.”  
  
“Second!” Gamma said, holding another finger up. “Treat your fellow students with respect.”  
  
“I’m sure you’ve all heard of the Sectarians and their agenda,” Beta said. “They represent the opposite of Arcadia’s philosophy, and they are a perfect example of what _not_ to do as parahumans. You may have powers, but it is important to remember that you are still _only human_. And you need to be fully capable of coexisting with non-powered people. To that end, you may not use your abilities on non-powered students without their explicit consent.”  
  
“As for powered students,” Alpha continued, “all of you here are members of the hero program. You may use your powers on each other as you see fit, so long as you have permission; this is a place of learning, after all. Be aware that fighting is strictly prohibited. If there is a disagreement, or you wish to spar, you may utilise one of the duelling arenas, provided you procure a staff member or a third year student to supervise and arbitrate.”  
  
“But make no mistake,” Beta said. “You are not the only powered students at Arcadia. There are also a dozen students partaking in the broker program, and some that have decided to attend as regular students.” One kid raised his hand, but Beta waved it away. “You will treat these students the same you would any non-powered student, and the identity protection rules apply to _all_ powered students who chose to not be publicly known.”  
  
“Third!” Gamma said, a third finger rising. “The hero program will not be easy.”  
  
“Though many would call that an understatement,” Alpha said with a smirk. “Most of you will be expected to attend classes with regular students each morning. You will _all_ also be expected to achieve a passing grade in _all_ of your subjects—and don’t bother trying to cheat. On top of that, you will have hero classes every afternoon. The details of these classes will be provided later in your orientation.”  
  
“During your first week,” Beta said, “you will each be paired with a hero who will take the role of mentor, and some of you may share a mentor. Your mentors will work with you and Arcadia staff to design training plans for each of you, which you will be expected to follow. These plans will be developed accordingly with your abilities and levels of prowess.”  
  
“Unlike the regular students,” Alpha said, “your schooling days will begin early. _How_ early may depend on your training plan, but none of you will be sleeping past five AM. This is one of several reasons you were all encouraged to make use of Arcadia’s dormitories, and not commute from home.”  
  
“Also unlike regular students,” Beta continued, “your Saturdays will be given over entirely to the hero program. Your training will be gruelling. Your days will be long. And you _will_ sustain injuries.” He smiled. “But of course, we do have healing services available.”  
  
“Now,” Gamma said, lowering his hand and straightening his white-and-pink suit. “When you leave this building, there will be more signs directing you to your dormitories. Awaiting you there will be a small group of second-year students and staff, who will assign you your rooms, give you a tour of the facilities, and explain how the dormitories and classes will operate.” He disappeared with the same _poof_ he had first appeared with.  
  
“After you are all settled in,” Alpha said, “we have a very special welcome prepared for you. And a set of exercises for each of you, to help us—and you—decide which role you’re best suited for, what your skill levels are, and just for a bit of fun.”  
  
“You can get going in just a moment,” Beta said as Alpha disappeared, too. “As soon as I’m done. There’s just one more thing I’d like to say, first.” For a long moment, he just scanned the crowd. “You may use your powers at any time, of course, so long as you comply with Arcadia rules while on campus. Therefore, you _may_ use your abilities on your way to the dormitories, if you so desire.” He gave a lopsided smile and scratched at his scalp. “Just… try not to break anything.”  
  
He vanished with another _poof_. There was a moment of stillness. Then a shockwave erupted from the midst of the crowd and a blur streaked its way out of the hall, making a sharp left just out the door and leaving a trail of dust in its wake as it sped into the distance.  
  
A familiar laugh sounded behind me while the rest of us—well, _most_ of us—stared in quiet shock. Victoria pushed off the ground with one foot and floated above our heads. “Bring it!” she yelled. What that meant, I had no idea, but as soon as her mouth was closed she zipped forward, cutting a diagonal path through the open doorway, unlike the speedster from earlier. She glanced back at me as she passed, and then she was gone.  
  
Her excited departure sparked a frenzy of sorts. My soon-to-be-classmates all jumped to their feet and ran out the door, onto the grass—and I went with them. Just like before the principal’s address, there were floating devices projecting hard-light holographic arrows pointing us, presumably, toward our dorms.  
  
Little Miss Edgy—no, dammit, _Sophia_ turned suddenly and ran at the wall. Just as she reached it, she crouched and jumped, and her body lost its form, morphing into a smokey, billowing blackness that floated up to the roof quicker than such a cloud should. Once at the roof, she turned back into human form and kicked off the edge _hard_ , jumping out over the grass, and transformed back to smoke, letting her momentum carry her outward.  
  
The armoured and masked boy from earlier fiddled with his belt for a moment. He unclipped it and it pulled away from his body by itself, straightening into a flat line and widening until it was big enough to stand on. It floated down to ankle level, green energy rings pulsating from its bottom, and the boy stood on it, his feet audibly clicking into place. Then he looked up and angled his board forward, and sped into the sky.  
  
Another boy shouted wordlessly and hit his fists together with a _clang_. Metal rippled out from the point of contact, quickly transforming his entire body—and his clothes, too—in gleaming stainless steel. He shuddered visibly, made a stretching motion, then jumped into an all-out sprint, his footsteps resounding on the earth with loud _thumps_. Beside him, one of the masked girls—the one who was wreathed in shadow—moved her darkness away from her body and formed a doorway of sorts, pitch black and unstable-looking. She stepped into it, and she and the doorway both vanished.  
  
A shimmering green glow to my right caught my attention, and I turned to see Eric creating a staircase of shields up into the air until he was well above head height, where he started forming an air-bridge that he ran across, rectangular platforms appearing just ahead of his feet even as others disappeared behind him.  
  
Beyond him, a red-headed girl swept her arms about in wavy motions, making a deep-pitched humming sound. Clouds of white-gold sand emerged from a series of tubes about her waist, more rising up from the ground and speeding across the sky. When enough sand had reacher her, the clouds solidified into a sphere, encasing the girl completely, and the sphere started rolling in the direction the arrows were pointing. Like one of those human-sized hamster balls. I snickered.  
  
A blonde boy beside me pulled a tennis-ball-sized orb from his pocket and pressed a button on its surface. It unfolded in his hand into a miniature quadcopter, its tiny fans accelerating rapidly, then it hovered above his hand and rocketed off toward the dorms. Then he sat down and started picking his nose.  
  
I shook my head and glanced over the other students that hadn’t already left. A brown-haired girl was floating a few feet above the ground and moving at a leisurely pace, scrutinising one of those Arcadia pamphlets the principal had talked about. Several other students began running or jogging without powers.  
  
The brunette from earlier—Hebert—was chatting with her blonde friend. The blonde nodded and pushed Hebert forward, then turned and walked over to me. “Hey!” she said, holding out her hand and smiling. “Lisa. Walk with me?”  
  
I shook it distractedly, keeping an eye on Hebert as she seemed to gear herself up for a running jump. “Amelia,” I said. “My friends call me Amy. Nice to meet you. And yeah, sure.”  
  
Lisa grinned and followed my gaze. “Ah. That’s Taylor. Met her this morning. No clue what her power is, beyond ‘tinker’.” Her voice took a mocking lilt. “She didn’t want to leave little ol’ me all by my lonesome, the _darling_.”  
  
Taylor glanced back at us with obvious exasperation—she must have good hearing—then turned back and started running. After a few seconds of acceleration, she leapt into the air and twisted. Little slots slid open in her shins, calves, elbows, hands, and feet, and tiny flashes of orange-blue erupted from within, like miniature jet engines embedded in her skin, and she spiralled up into the sky, small trails of smoke following in her wake.  
  
Then she twisted again and fire boomed from her calves, sending her flipping end over end at a frankly _ridiculous_ speed in the direction of the dorms. Jets of orange-blue flashed from other places on her limbs every second or two, thrusting her sideways or redirecting her momentum, keeping her from falling to the ground. It looked nauseating, but…  
  
For a long moment, we just watched Taylor somersault through the air, like a parahuman trapeze artist.  
  
We started walking.  
  
I’ve never wanted a mover power more than I did that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Part of my Arcadia AU, which is really expansive and something I likely won't write a proper story for anytime soon.


	2. Arcadia - The First Day: Taylor vs. Dovetail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Preface:** This is part of the "exercises" the principal talked about in [Not-1.1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7833481/chapters/17882434). (1,513 words)

“Second rung, fifth bracket match starts in one minute,” the coach’s voice came through the speakers installed in the ceiling. “Taylor Hebert, A.K.A. Astro, versus Rosalie Daniels, A.K.A. Dovetail.”  
  
I looked up. The door to the arena slid open with a pneumatic hiss.  
  
_Deep breaths, Taylor,_ I told myself as I stepped through. _You can do this. Deep breaths._  
  
The arena was a rainforest this time, rather than the desert ruins from my first match. Trees surrounded me, close-knit, some with trunks thick enough that I could wrap my arms around them without my hands touching. The ground was soft beneath my feet, and birds chirped in the trees—though it was probably just ambience. There was even a _stream_ about thirty or forty metres to my right, and a clearing full of boulders equally distant to my left. _About 120 square metres, then. Same as the last one._  
  
I stopped on the orange disc set on the grass. My starting point.  
  
“Standard rules apply,” the coach spoke again. I wasn’t sure where the speakers were hidden. “The match will end when one participant forfeits, or is rendered unconsciousness or otherwise unable to fight. Possibly lethal attacks are illegal. Anything else is permitted. Healers are on site to treat injuries after the match has concluded.”  
  
I took another deep breath and looked across the arena at my opponent, maybe fifty metres away, standing on another orange disc. She had long brown hair, not tied back, and wore a t-shirt and shorts, like me. I only hoped I looked as composed as she did.  
  
Dovetail stopped looking around the arena and met my eyes. I held contact for a second before dropping my gaze to her feet, and took a deep breath.  
  
I hadn’t seen her fight, and I didn’t know what her power was. Her first match had finished about a minute before mine, and I hadn’t talked to anyone who’d spectated.  
  
“Ten seconds to match start,” the coach said, and the discs we were standing on projected a countdown, complete with beeps when the number changed. “Good luck, girls.”  
  
Eight seconds, the projection indicated. I took a deep breath, and focused. _First priority: figure out her power. Keep your distance and hide your own capabilities ’til you’ve got enough data._ Five seconds. _Assumptions: she’s a better flier. She’s better at hand-to-hand. She’s stronger, physically. She’s relentless._  
  
_She’s your worst possible match-up._  
  
Three seconds.  
  
_Open with long-range weaponry._  
  
Two seconds.  
  
_Keep trees between you when possible._  
  
One second.  
  
_Don’t panic._  
  
I activated the jets in my shins and leapt in the stream’s direction the moment the timer rang, unfolding my pistols from my belt. Dovetail had rocketed into the air when zero hit, and was zig-zagging her way toward me, rather than launching an immediate assault.  
  
I ran toward the bank while I shot up at her. She dodged the lasers deftly, leaving scorch marks on the trees, then kicked off a branch and shot toward me _fast_. _Definitely a better flier than me_ , I thought sourly.  
  
A moment before Dovetail reached me, I jumped backwards, relying on my jets to carry me over the stream and shooting my lasers at her. A flurry of sparkling silver pellets flew at me when she jerked to a stop just above head-height. The few sparks my lasers hit ballooned into some sort of translucent silver dome that evaporated almost as soon as they appeared, dissipating my lasers with them.  
  
_Energy dissipation? Absorption? Force fields?_  
  
I twisted in the air to avoid the other sparks. They didn’t seem to have independent movement. That was good. I flared the jets in the soles of my feet, sending me backflipping into the air. At the crest of my jump, I kicked off a tree and flared my jets again, soaring into the air.  
  
Glancing down, I saw Dovetail flying toward me. I couldn’t help but smile. _I have her beat on acceleration, at least._  
  
Letting the pistol in my left hand drop, I turned and broke off the first branch I saw, one about as thick as my wrist. I flared the jets in my elbow and spun back to face Dovetail, and threw it at her, also shooting a pair of lasers to either side. Rather than change direction, Dovetail spun, the silver sparks spiralling out from her hair. A pair of sparks hit the stick, enclosing it almost instantly in a shimmering silver bubble, two layers thick.  
  
_Force fields, then. I can deal with that._  
  
The stick dropped, and I shot a few lasers at her, then fired _all_ my jets, darting toward her while she reoriented herself. I spun in the air and thrust my leg out, flaring the jets in my thigh. Dovetail _oof’ed_ as my shin connected with her gut, and we both dropped out of the sky.  
  
I righted myself and activated the electromagnets in my left palm to pull my other pistol back up to me, shooting a few lasers at my opponent. One hit her shoulder, even though I wasn’t really aiming, and she spiralled into a tree just as my other pistol returned to my hand. I dropped to the ground, flaring my feet-jets at the last moment to slow down.  
  
Dovetail only fell four or five metres, but the ground in this area was pretty rocky, and she landed with a pretty heavy thump. She lay there for a long moment—enough for me to start worrying—before groaning and rolling onto her back.  
  
I tensed and raised my guns, but she just waved a hand at me.  
  
“I concede,” she chuckled.  
  
A ding sounded from the arena speakers, making me jump, even though it had happened last time.  
  
“Victory goes to Taylor Hebert, A.K.A. Astro,” the coach said. “Congratulations.”  
  
The grass and trees and rocks morphed into cold steel that slowly receded into the ground, and the water from the stream filtered out into a series of drains that also disappeared once all the water was gone. _Shakers._  
  
“Second rung, sixth bracket match starts in ten minutes,” the coach said. “Amelia Dallon, A.K.A. Helix, and Eric Pelham, A.K.A. Shielder, head to your respective prep rooms.”  
  
_Dallon?_ I breathed out heavily, dropping my guns and letting the electromagnets pull them back into their slots on my belt. _As in, Brandish and Flashbang? I didn’t know they had_ two _daughters_.  
  
I heard a curse from my left, and looked over to see Dovetail wince and hold a hand to her side as she tried to stand. I hurried over.  
  
“Would… would you like some help?” I asked.  
  
She looked at me for a second, then sighed and reached out an arm. “Sure.”  
  
I grabbed her arm and momentarily flared the jets in my forearms to pull her to her feet. She winced again and leaned against me, and we started walking—or limping, in Dovetail’s case—toward the third door that had opened on the other side of the arena. A man wearing a nurse’s outfit with a red cross on the chest was walking toward us. Hale, probably.  
  
“You kick _really_ hard, y’know,” Dovetail said.  
  
“Oh. Uh, sorry,” I said. “Still working out the kinks.”  
  
“Hmm. Tinker, yeah?”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” I said. At her raised eyebrow, I added, “Personal augmentation, I think.”  
  
“Sounds cool,” she said with a smile. “My name’s Rose. I can’t really direct my power very well. Not yet, at least. It mostly just follows me.”  
  
“I’m Taylor. Your power is those sparks, right? They looked like force fields.”  
  
“Sorta, yeah. They’re not really hard to break, but they slow people down a lot. And they really stack up.” Her smile turned rueful. “Not very good against people who can keep ahead of me, though. Kudos.”  
  
We stopped walking when Hale reached us. “May I?” he asked, holding out a hand. Rose nodded, and he started poking her all over.  
  
“Two broken ribs,” Hale said, after a minute. I winced. “Dislocated shoulder, with first degree burns. Your left wrist and the accompanying little finger are both broken, too.” He put his hand on her chest, and their veins started glowing beneath their skin. Rose gasped when her shoulder popped a few moments later, and Hale withdrew his hand, the glow fading with it. “Should be fine in half an hour or so. I’ve numbed the nerves a bit, so it won’t hurt too much, but you’ll retain function. Don’t do anything strenuous until everything’s done setting. And come to the medical office tomorrow morning.”  
  
Rose gave a lazy salute and removed her arm from my shoulder. We left the arena with Hale trailing behind.  
  
“Hey, Taylor!” Lisa shouted as we entered the spectator’s lounge, waving like a lunatic. “Over here! Nice match!”  
  
Rose grinned. “Friend of yours?”  
  
I'm pretty sure I blushed.  
  
“I guess,” I said, turning to walk in Lisa’s direction. “I only met her this morning. She’s in the support division.”  
  
Rose followed me. “Ahh,” she said, nodding sagely. “She’s one of the crazies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Used Dovetail because she was the one my eyes landed on in the master list, and I couldn't be bothered finding/creating another OC I liked. She's a teenager now.


	3. Blowback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Preface:** A oneshot that reaaaally needs a rewrite, but I haven't gotten around to it yet. (3,087 words)
> 
>  **Contains:** Sophia Hess, shoddy writing.

_It’s her. She’s where it all started. The root cause. The seed that spawned the hate, the betrayal… It’s her fault. All of it._  
  
_But I know how to fix it. She’s a snake, a poison, sucking the life out of me, out of_ her _. I know how to deal with snakes. It’s just like they say._  
  
_Cut off the head, and the body dies._  
  
—————————————————  
  
_Fuck you, Armsmaster._  
  
The door of my locker slammed shut as soon as my books were out. I was already halfway down the hall.  
  
_You want to stop my patrols? And that prissy little bitch gets_ rewarded _? Fuck you. We’ll see how you like your fucking halberd when it’s three feet up your ass._  
  
I snorted at the image. It didn’t do shit for my mood, though. Fucker probably kept a backup in there already.  
  
I got to my biology class and pushed the door open. The teacher—Mr. O’Donnel or O’Connor or something like that—stopped whatever he was doing and turned his balding head my way as I walked to my desk.  
  
“Sophia,” he said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “You’re twenty minutes late.”  
  
I sat beside Emma, dropping my books on the desk, maybe a little too heavily, and forced myself to smile at him. “Sorry, sir. I had a meeting with my, uh, _social worker_. I signed in at the late desk already.” _No I didn’t. But you don’t care, do you?_ “Want to see the pass?”  
  
He blinked at me. Twice, like some kind of fucking owl. They blink a lot, don’t they? Then he nodded, slowly. “No, that’s alright,” he said. “Just try to be on time from now on.” Then he went back to drawing little squares and letters on the whiteboard.  
  
_Fuckin’ pansy._  
  
Emma nudged me with her elbow, and raised an eyebrow. _What happened?_  
  
I shook my head at her. _I’ll tell you later._  
  
She nodded, and went back to doodling cats on the corners of her textbook. They weren’t half bad.  
  
—————————————————  
  
“So?” Emma said, cracking her lunchbox open and setting it on her knees. “What happened?”  
  
I glanced around us. We were sitting on the bleachers by the track, up at the top. There were a few guys doing laps in football jerseys, and a pair of blondes watching them and giggling to themselves, but nobody was close enough to hear us.  
  
I took a bite of my sandwich and looked back at Emma. “Vista.”  
  
“What’d she do?” Emma was grinning now.  
  
I scowled. “You know I went out last night?” Emma nodded, her grin fading. “Well, I was on console duty before that. She was patrolling with Aegis. We got off at the same time, and I went out right after.” I felt one of my fists clench. “Turns out the prissy little bitch followed me. Said she was _curious_ about what I do when I’m off-duty.”  
  
“Uh, okay… so?”  
  
I glared at her. “I’m not supposed to patrol on my own. It’s part of my probation. She ratted me out.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Yeah, _oh_.”  
  
“You’re in trouble, then?”  
  
“Yeah. She didn’t get close enough to see that I had more than tranq’s, but still. I got called out this morning, and Assmaster banned me from—”  
  
Emma snorted, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s just… Assmaster.“ She giggled.  
  
I couldn’t help a smile, but it didn’t last long. “Anyway, he banned me from taking my costume and crossbows home. And stuck me on console duty for a month. And Vista got a pat on the fucking back for snitching on her goddamn teammates.”  
  
“That sucks,” Emma said, putting a hand on my knee. The sympathy in her voice irritated me. “Does that mean you’re gonna stop patrolling?”  
  
“For a while, yeah,” I told her. “They catch me again and I’ll be in deep shit. I’m not goin’ to juvie.”  
  
She made an understanding noise and pulled her hand back. I missed it. The contact. _Idiot._  
  
“Where’s Hebert? Is she back yet?”  
  
“Huh?” Emma said. I hadn’t realised I’d spoken out loud. “Uh, I’m not sure. I haven’t seen her today.”  
  
“Fuck,” I growled. “I need something to hit. Where’s she been all week?”  
  
“I don’t know. Probably skipping.”  
  
“Like she’d have the guts to. What about Clements?”  
  
Emma smiled at me, her eyebrow raised again. “You’re not going to beat _her_ up, are you?”  
  
I laughed. “No. Just asking where she is.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure she’s in the gym, practicing. Her dance recital is next week, remember?”  
  
“Oh, right.” _Clements does dance?_ “Whatever.”  
  
Emma leaned forward a bit, twisting to look up at me. “Hey, are you on duty tonight?”  
  
“No. It’s friday, though, so I have track. Why?”  
  
“Want to come over my place? I still have your sleeping bag, and we didn’t finish watching Jurassic Park last time. And I could do your nails again! I just got a sample of this great new colour from Revlon called Heart Red, and I think it’d look great on you. Especially if you put the lipstick on, too.”  
  
“I… Yeah. That sounds nice.”  
  
Emma beamed at me and bounced to her feet. “Great! I’ll call dad. Want a lift to your place, after you’re done with track? To pick up your clothes?”  
  
“No, that’s alright. I’ll go myself. You don’t have to wait.”  
  
“Okay.” She bent down to pick up her now-empty lunchbox and shoved it back into her bag, just as the bell for fifth period rang. I had maths, she had computers. “See you tonight!” she said, then ran off.  
  
As I walked to my next class, I found myself smiling. _I guess her attitude is catching._  
  
—————————————————  
  
The rest of school wasn’t terrible, but that’s the most I can say of it. Maths was boring, world issues was as much of a pain in the ass as ever, and track, well…  
  
I couldn’t concentrate. My mind kept drifting back to how Assmaster and Miss Piggy had torn me a new one, and I kept trying to force it to think about tonight’s sleepover with Emma, but it just kept going _back_.  
  
I don’t know if that means I’m cynical or focused on the past or whatever, but I do know that I wound up being the last person to finish my laps.  
  
“Sophia!” Coach Jackie said, walking up to me as I towelled off. “You look a bit out of it. You okay?”  
  
“I’m fine,” I said.  
  
“Oh? Are you sure?”  
  
“I’m _fine_ , Coach.”  
  
She looked at me askance for a minute, and I sighed.  
  
“I’m just a little distracted,” I said, though it came out as more of a grumble. I couldn’t help but think I sounded like a child. I hated it. “I’ll be fine next week.”  
  
Coach Jackie put a hand on my shoulder. “You know you can talk to me if you ever need help with something, yeah?”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Well, okay then.” She smiled. Mischievously. “You know the drill. Last place packs up.”  
  
“Ugh,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Do I have to?”  
  
“You’re damn right you do,” she chuckled, putting the storeroom keys in my hand. “Now get going. I’ve got a six pack and a game of hockey at home that require my attention.” She tussled my hair and pushed me toward the track, then turned and walked over to the car park. “See you next week, Sophia!”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” I called back. “See you.”  
  
It took me maybe ten minutes to pack the hurdles and jump ropes and all the other stuff away. Phasing through walls is faster than walking, even if the hurdles are heavier than they look. When I was done, I dropped the keys off at the teacher’s lounge—though only the home-ec teacher was there—and walked to the bus stop.  
  
The next bus wouldn’t be for another twenty minutes, so I called Emma and told her I’d be there in an hour or two. We chatted for a few minutes—she asked what I wanted for dinner, I said I didn’t care, we decided on pizza—then hung up. I went to sit down, and—  
  
“Sophia.”  
  
I stopped. Had I forgotten something, and a teacher had come out to let me know? Straightening, I looked behind me and frowned.  
  
“Hebert?”  
  
She was standing there, in the middle of the bus stop, wearing baggy jeans and a dark, equally-baggy hoodie, with the hood up. She had a backpack on, and those stupid-ass glasses of hers.  
  
“I figured you’d have track today,” she said. “You usually do on fridays. I was waiting.” She scratched at the back of her head. “I would’ve spoken up sooner, but I didn’t want to interrupt your call.”  
  
“Is that right?” I said, tucking my phone into my pocket. “You’re stalking me, now?” I felt a smile creeping on. Guess the world decided to throw me a bone. I was up for some stress relief.  
  
“No,” Hebert said. “I just pay attention. You were talking to Emma, right? I used to do that, before. Can’t anymore. My dad threw out our cell phones when my mum died.”  
  
“Guess he’s as pathetic as you, then.”  
  
“Guess so.”  
  
My smile slipped a little. I’d expected more of a reaction than that. But then, I wasn’t half as good at the verbal stuff as Emma. Or even Clements, for that matter. “You’ve been gone a while. Emma thinks you’ve been skipping, but I don’t think you have the guts to.”  
  
“Hmm. I gave myself a cold.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yeah. Took a bunch of ice-cold showers, slept on the floor without any blankets or clothes, just wet underwear and socks. Wasn’t very hard. Uncomfortable, though.”  
  
I smirked. “Wow. Sounds like a lot of effort. Does this mean you didn’t want to see me? I’m hurt.”  
  
Hebert didn’t respond. I was just about to say something else when she did. “You like to fight, right?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Fight. Hitting people. Hurting people. You know what I mean. You hit me all the time, so I figure you must.”  
  
I shrugged. “Sure, I guess. Fighting’s the only real way to prove your worth. Beating on you isn’t fighting, though. That’s just par for the course.”  
  
“Right, right.” She sniffed and wiped at her nose with a sleeve. “Want to fight, then? Properly?”  
  
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Me? Fight you?”  
  
“Yeah. We could go somewhere quiet. Somewhere empty. Just you and me. The train yard’s not far from here. The bus could take us right there. Then we could just wail on each other until someone runs out of teeth.”  
  
I stared at her, probably unable to keep my incredulity off my face. Then I laughed. Maybe too much. I had to put a hand on the bus stop to keep from falling over, and the other clutched at my stomach. I managed to calm myself down after a minute or two, and I wiped tears from my eyes.  
  
“You done?” Hebert said.  
  
I looked at her and bit down another laugh. “You think a weakling like you has a chance against me in a fight?”  
  
“I know I do. You’re a bully. And that makes you a coward.”  
  
I grabbed her hoodie and pulled her in close. “You think _I’m_ a coward?” I spat in her face. “ _You’re_ the one that gave herself a cold to get away from me. _You’re_ the one that never fights back. _You’re_ the fucking coward.”  
  
“Yeah, bitch,” Hebert said, scowling at me, now. “I’m a coward. I own that. But I’m here now. You want me to fight back? I’m ready to fight back. Just say the fucking word.” I saw the bus approach out of the corner of my eye. “You said it yourself. I’m pathetic. I’m weak. But if you can’t even bring yourself to fight me on even ground, what does that make you?”  
  
The bus pulled closer. “You want to go?” I snarled. “Fine.” I turned and waved the bus down, and boarded.  
  
Hebert followed me.  
  
—————————————————  
  
We sat across from each other. Hebert spent the whole ride looking out the window, her hands shoved in her pockets. I spent it glaring at her.  
  
This was a change. And not a welcome one. Not that it really mattered. Putting her in her place had never been hard. She might’ve finally decided to try and do something, but I could knock her back down. She wasn’t strong. This was just the moment she broke.  
  
Hebert hit the stop button as we came up to the train yard, and we disembarked.  
  
“This way,” she said, then started walking toward the tracks. I scowled, and followed.  
  
The trip only took a few minutes, spent in silence, until Hebert stopped near the tracks, a stupidly old shipping container between us and where trains would come.  
  
She looked around a bit, then took her bag off and put it down on the ground, resting against the shipping container. I put mine down, too. Then Hebert withdrew a pair of gloves and started pulling them on.  
  
“What the fuck are you doing?” I said.  
  
She glanced up at me. “Putting gloves on,” she said. “Obviously.”  
  
I scowled at her. “Why?”  
  
“I read they stop your hands from getting hurt so bad when you’re throwing punches. Lets me hit you for longer.”  
  
“That’s boxing gloves, dipshit.”  
  
She shrugged. “All the same.” She finished pulling the gloves on, then pushed her sleeve back and looked at her watch. It was a garish green, and looked like one of those shitty plastic ones you could get at the dollar store.  
  
_Goddamit._ “Are we gonna fucking do this or not?”  
  
“Just a minute. Have to wait for the train to go past, then there won’t be anyone to see us. Shouldn’t be long now.”  
  
“Jesus christ. I’m going to enjoy this.” So we waited. I got more irritated by the second, until I felt like punching the bitch just to spite her. Then I heard a rumbling to the north. I looked past Hebert and saw a train approaching, slowly and loudly. It was one of those ones that carry coal or whatever, not people.  
  
My foot tapped against the ground of its own volition. Patience is a virtue, my ass. Patience is for idiots.  
  
The train reached us, then it was running alongside. It was ridiculously noisy, and—  
  
BANG!  
  
My shoulder jerked back and pain flared. I put one foot behind me to regain my balance, put one hand against the shipping container, the other on my shoulder, and whipped my head around to stare at Hebert.  
  
She was pointing a gun at me.  
  
She shot me.  
  
Hebert fucking _shot me_!  
  
“You—“  
  
BANG!  
  
I went shadow a fraction too late, and the second bullet took me in the stomach. The pain kicked me back out of shadow, and I fell to the ground with a long, low groan that I couldn’t stop.  
  
She dropped the gun to her side.  
  
“I always wondered why the villains took the time to monologue in movies,” Hebert said, looking down at me. “It’s so inefficient. I figured I’d shoot first, _then_ monologue. It won’t be very long, though. I chose this place and this time for a reason, but there’s no sense in being stupid.”  
  
She brought the gun up, turning it in her hands, inspecting it. “I bet you’re wondering where I got this. It was my grandfather’s.” I started crawling over to my bag, by the shipping container. “On my mother’s side. He served in the cold war. You know, the one with Russia and Vietnam. It’s his old service pistol. An M1911, I think. I found it about three weeks ago. Did some target prac—”  
  
She stopped talking, walked over, and grabbed my bag, right out from under my hand.  
  
“Fuck you,” I spat. Or tried to, anyway. It came out as a blubber, accompanied by a glob of blood.  
  
Hebert reached out and stuck her hand in my pocket, taking my phone out. “Looking for this?”  
  
_Fuck._ I swiped at her hand, but she drew it back. She put the phone in my bag, and put the bag down next to hers. Then she moved the gun to her left hand, and punched me in the face. Hard.  
  
“Ow, shit,” she said, shaking her hand. I laughed at her, though it was more of a garbled snort. “Whatever. I didn’t have much to say anyway. Just that you’re a bitch.” She raised the gun again, and pulled the trigger. I went shadow, and the first bullet passed through me harmlessly, my body coalesced into smoke, twisting and turning in place. I had no momentum, and I couldn’t move in shadow form.  
  
Hebert stopped after the first shot. “I’ve known you were Shadow Stalker for a while, too,” she said. “Over a month, now. I did a lot of research. I know you can’t hold that state for long. But I'd like to get this over with, and I heard some rumours that you’re not good with electricity, so…”  
  
She turned and pulled a stun gun out of her bag. “I went and bought one of these. Cost me half my savings, but if it works, it’ll be worth it.” She put it in my shadow. “Ready?”  
  
She powered it on, and the current laced through my body. I flickered into flesh, then back to shadow, then back to flesh. I opened my mouth to scream, but she punched me in the face again.  
  
I groaned and writhed on the ground, but that only made the bullet wounds hurt more. Hebert put the stun gun back in her bag, then stood up and pointed the pistol at me. Something ran down my spine. I refused to consider what it was.  
  
I met her eyes and panted for a long moment. “Guns are for cowards."  
  
She smiled a sad smile. “I already told you, didn’t I? I’m okay with being a coward.”  
  
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.  
  
CLICK.  
  
I coughed. Blood spilled down my chin. There were already black spots in my vision.  
  
I didn’t hurt anymore.  
  
I just felt numb.  
  
Cold.  
  
I barely registered when Taylor picked up the bags and ran away.  
  
I barely registered when a man in an orange and yellow jacket found me and put his fingers to my neck.  
  
I didn’t register the ambulance arrive at all.  
  
_I need to tell Emma I’ll be late._  
  
Blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** This is not a revenge fic, despite appearances. This was an experiment in writing Sophia. And you can probably see why it needs a rewrite. I had the completely wrong idea of how Sophia's power worked, and I misrepresented her skill level somewhat. I also let her take a more passive role toward the end, which isn't really her.
> 
> Also, I got some comments on this the first time I posted about Taylor being OOC because of how cold-hearted she appears. But keep in mind this is entirely from Sophia's POV. Taylor is not even remotely calm or cold. She's freaking the fuck out, even before they start talking. I have outlines for a few more vignettes (one from Taylor's POV, one from Emma's, one from an investigator's) that would show this, but I can't write them until I've rewritten this, and I have so much other shit in the pipeline. Ugh.
> 
> Fun fact: this was the second thing I ever wrote and posted for Worm, after the [Taylor vs Dovetail](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7833481/chapters/17882503) snippet. And before that, all I had under my belt were two crappy short stories and a novel I abandoned because I had (and still have) no idea how to plot a story. 


	4. Worm: The Dating Sim - Emma Barnes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Preface:** I don't know what I was thinking. I must have been severely inebriated when I wrote this. _Please_ don't read this.
> 
> But if you insist... this is based somewhat on the idea from the QQ ideas thread. I added a little NouCome and To LOVE-Ru because it amused me. This is the closest to NSFW out of the W:TDS snippets (and the worst; I wasn't sure what tone I was shooting for, at first), but it didn't feel right separating it from the others, so here. (982 words)
> 
>  **Contains:** fingers in butts. in a non-sexual, To LOVE-Ru kind of way, but still fingers in butts.

My feet carried me down the hall as I hurried in the direction of my chemistry class, my bag clutched against my chest. The halls were empty. Not surprising, given class had started five minutes ago. But the rules of the game meant I was never on time.  
  
I heard footsteps echoing down a perpendicular hallway, moving toward me. I would have sighed if I’d had the time. It was just so _predictable_.  
  
Just as I turned the corner, I bumped into someone. Or rather, she bumped into me. My arms wheeled as we both toppled, the end result being—of course—the contents of my bag spilled across the floor and me sat atop her face, my skirt ridden far enough up my belly that my panties were on full display. Her face was practically _buried_ in my crotch. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, both of her hands were cupping my butt, with one finger knuckle-deep in my asshole. How does that even _happen_?  
  
I took small consolation in the fact that nobody else was around, and my panties hadn’t gotten shoved to the side again, so I wasn’t flashing her _everything_. Not like when she’d tripped and fell on me at the front gate. Or when we’d collided on the stairs. Or the accident in phys-ed that had left us sixty-nineing in the middle of the sports track. Or… well, you get the idea. Today’s incident could’ve be worse. But it was still humiliating as shit. I mean, a finger in my ass? Come on!  
  
I wouldn’t have had this problem if I’d been wearing pants. I didn’t even _like_ skirts! I only owned like six or seven, and skinny jeans were way more flattering for my figure. But the universe had compelled me to wear a skirt this morning, and I’d been as powerless to resist as ever.  
  
Slowly, my skirt slid down my stomach to its natural resting place, falling over Taylor’s head. She shuffled and my body leaned back, uncovering her face again to reveal a fierce blush, her cheeks redder than my hair. Her finger twitched. The movement made my butt twinge and my breath catch. She must have noticed, as she turned her head to stare off in one direction, pointedly not looking at me and moving as little as she could.  
  
She probably thought she was being nice. Or considerate. It was bullshit. She didn’t _know_ , but it was bullshit.  
  
The world froze. All I could do was breathe and blink—and even those were done for me, run on a loop. Taylor was the only person that could move when things went like this, but judging from our experiences so far, she was limited too.  
  
“ERABE!” a voice boomed. Like I was supposed to know what that meant. Three little blue windows popped up between us, slightly translucent, each numbered and containing text. I couldn’t actually read them—they were reversed, from my perspective—but I could make a guess.  
  
Taylor sighed, then looked over her options. The options that would dictate our future. With obvious reluctance, she removed one hand from my butt—not the finger one—and tapped the first listing. The window flashed and disappeared, and there was a moment of stillness. Then the world kicked into motion.  
  
A shriek escaped my lips: “ _Kyaaaa_!” as my body jumped to its feet, Taylor’s finger popping out of my butt. I refused to admit I’d liked it. I staggered away from her until my back was against the wall. My hands took positions across my chest and crotch in the cliche ‘maiden protecting her modesty’ pose—even though I was fully clothed—and one leg raised up until my knee was in line with my hip.  
  
“Pervert!” I shouted, recognising the pattern. I’d gotten good at reading these things. But she’d chosen _this_? Now I wanted to know what the other options were! “Pervert, pervert, pervert!”  
  
Taylor looked up at me, and I got a good look at her. She looked haggard, eyes drawn and set above deep, dark sacks. She winced as she stood and took a step toward me. “Sorry, Emma, I didn’t mean—“  
  
I punched her in the face. Not by choice, though I probably would have done it willingly. She went flying down the hall, _way_ further than any punch of mine was physically capable of sending her, screaming “—toooo!” in a long, drawn-out note. She bounced off the floor, rebounded off a wall, hit the ceiling, then smashed into a set of lockers, caving them in.  
  
The scenario ended. I didn’t regain _full_ control of my body—I never had that anymore—but I felt the invisible binds loosen. Taylor stood up slowly, looking even worse than before, though of course she wasn’t seriously injured, just scuffed a bit. She glanced at me and nodded weakly, but said nothing. Then she shambled down the hall away from me.  
  
I frowned. Had she chosen that one on purpose? Because it was the easiest for me? My body bent over to pick up my things. I rubbed my butt and smiled ruefully. She probably had. She was always good at reading me; I didn’t doubt she knew I liked those ones. Getting to hit her like that was the only thing keeping me from slitting my wrists at night. Well, that and the universe.  
  
My feet started moving on track again, and my good humour vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced with a growing dread. I had chemistry class now. With Taylor. And it was only first period. I had an entire day to get through yet.  
  
I muttered a fervent prayer under my breath. But who was I kidding? Of course I was going to be her partner. I always was.  
  
But hey. Maybe my clothes would survive this time.


	5. Worm: The Dating Sim - Colin Wallis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Preface:** Some more. Sort of. This'll be anthological, though all W:TDS snippets take place in the same universe. (1,374 words)
> 
>  **Contains:** drug use. for lols.

The usual chime sounded from his computer, letting him know someone had patched into his private communications channel. “Colin?”  
  
He spun his chair around to face the computer, meeting the gaze of his visitor’s recently updated avatar. It was fully modelled, now. Much more complicated. He had theories as to why she’d upgraded now when she’d been so against it earlier, but she seemed reluctant to share just yet, and he didn’t press her.  
  
“Dragon,” he said, casting a cursory glance at the bars hovering beside her. Nothing out of the ordinary, though the satisfaction meter had dropped more than he’d expected. Perhaps he’d neglected her somewhat. Hm. Easy enough to rectify. “How can I help?”  
  
She shifted, looking down at her feet. “Do you notice anything different about me?”  
  
Colin froze. That was it. The question he’d dreaded ever since his new life had started. This situation demanded careful steps.  
  
He considered himself an observant man—tinkering would be difficult if he was prone to missing things, even occasionally—but… women were hard to understand. They seemed to treat a change of clothes the way he’d treat a new attachment for his halberd, as if changing clothes was something more than a ridiculous but necessary aspect of maintaining a socially acceptable everyday lifestyle.  
  
Noticing a change of clothing presented no difficulty, though it was not typically an event worth commenting on. But Dragon’s avatar wore the same attire it had on her last visit, so clearly that was not the answer she sought. Something else had changed. But what?  
  
Two blinks activated the latest build of his analysis assistant, the program hooking into the camera in his helmet and scanning the feed for any and all details. A twitch of his left-hand ring finger prompted a port to open up at the base of his neck, between his shoulder blades. From that port emerged a tiny needle, sliding into his neck with an insignificant pinch and injecting a translucent fluid directly into his spinal cord. The drugs took effect instantaneously, and his brain kicked into overdrive.  
  
Performance enhancers were dangerous, and he had relegated them accordingly for use exclusively in emergency situations. By his reckoning, this qualified. A flick of his eyes started a timer in the corner of his helmet display. A question such as Dragon’s was time-sensitive, an optimistic estimate maxing at approximately six and a half seconds. If he took too long to respond, she would assume he was unable to recognise the difference in her appearance, whatever that was.  
  
Such an outcome would likely result in a drop in affection and trust levels of anywhere between three to seven percent, dependent on several factors.  
  
His eyes snapped to the boxes on Dragon’s left. Her mood register indicated she was feeling uncertain and lonely, but excited. Not excellent. Evidently fifty-seven hours was the maximum possible period he could go without interacting with Dragon before incurring some penalty. He’d have to make note of that later. It was a non-insignificant difference to Hannah’s sixty-five hours and Kayden’s one-hundred-and-nine.  
  
Yes, the mood readings were a concern. Uncertainty would likely result in a drop in self-confidence and cause a domino effect that would end with Dragon becoming more closed off on a personal level, potentially locking off a route.  
  
Hm. That would not do at all.  
  
He inspected her avatar closely. Her hair was unchanged in style and length, but it appeared to be approximately two shades lighter than it had been the last time he’d seen her. However, there had been an accident in his lab between then and now, and he’d been forced to recalibrate the gamma and colour gamut configurations on his two primary monitors, which Dragon was using now. That could skew the results. But there didn’t seem to be any other changes.  
  
A tough decision awaited. Should he admit to not knowing the answer, or guess? His helmet timer informed him he had two point two seconds left to consider. Tapping into the analysis assistant revealed it had not discovered anything out of the ordinary. He terminated both programs and opened his mouth to speak, but Dragon cut him off.  
  
“You can’t tell, can you?” she said, virtual lips twisting into a grin.  
  
Fuck. He considered lying, but threw the idea out. He’d failed, and she’d caught him. Better to acknowledge it, no matter how much it would set back his progress on completing her route.  
  
“Maybe you should turn around.”  
  
Frowning in confusion, he did so, just as the door to his lab opened. A woman walked in, clad head-to-toe in gunmetal grey armour. Only the lower half of her face was uncovered, similar to Colin’s own helmet. She stopped by his desk, then reached up and pulled the helmet off—an act punctuated by a quiet pneumatic hiss as the clasps connecting helmet to body released—revealing a beautiful face and lush brown hair that went to her shoulders.  
  
His jaw dropped. She smiled. “Project Soma?” he said, glancing back at his computer. Dragon’s avatar was gone. “You completed it?”  
  
“I did,” Dragon said with a nod. Her voice sounded different when not being output through speakers. She stretched out her arms and waggled her fingers. “I still have concerns about the power supply, but everything seems to be working correctly. Even the nerve endings.”  
  
Colin rose from his seat and circled her, inspecting her head. She grinned. He removed his gauntlet and ran a hand through her hair. It felt like hair. His curiosity got the better of him. He poked her cheek and neck, feeling the way the skin gave way to his fingers. He pried open her lips to test the internal fluid generation and tapped her teeth to check hardness. He squeezed her nose and pulled her ear, nodding as the cartilage responded the way it should.  
  
It was a masterwork. And not just in regards to the craftsmanship and technological achievements emulating so many aspects of the human body would require. The design was top-of-the-line too, with flawless skin and a perfectly sculpted face that looked nearly identical to her digital avatar’s. He’d seen the blueprints and technical drawings and mockups, of course, even collaborated on much of the hardware, but having the final product standing before him was something else entirely.  
  
He studied her eyes. They were photorealistic, the camera lens not visible at all. There was no indication that the inhabitant of this body was an artificial intelligence. Even the jerky, halting movement of human eyes was replicated perfectly as Dragon glanced at him. “Um,” she said. “You’re awfully close.”  
  
He jumped back, berating himself. Respecting personal space, rule thirteen of the gentleman’s handbook. And the second entry of the ‘Signs of a Good Boyfriend’ article from the latest Cosmopolitan. He’d thought he’d memorised those.  
  
“My apologies.” Colin looked at Dragon’s stat bars, now hovering over her shoulder, dreading a decrease. The heart icon flashed to indicate a change in affection levels, but oddly, the numbers had gone _up_. Not by much, granted, but they had still gone up. Interesting. He would make note of that, too.  
  
Dragon cleared her throat. Then did it three more times, as if testing the functionality. “So?” she said when she was satisfied. “What do you think?”  
  
“It’s exquisite.”  
  
Her cheeks coloured. Oh, the intricate designs _that_ must have involved! He’d be thinking about that for days. Dragon shifted her feet. “Thank you.”  
  
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the affection meter rise another fraction. Compliments were consistent at that.  
  
An idea struck him. He smiled at her. “Have you tested much?”  
  
“Not yet,” Dragon said. “Once I confirmed the movement and neural interfaces were working, I flew it straight here to show you.”  
  
“Do you think it’s ready to take outdoors?”  
  
Dragon paused, narrowing her eyes at him. “Maybe. Why?”  
  
He threw another glance at her affection meter, then squared his shoulders. He’d have to do this sooner or later; no sense letting the opportunity go to waste.  
  
“Well,” he said slowly, not letting his anxiety show. “I thought we could go on a date.”


	6. Worm: The Dating Sim - Amy Dallon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Contains:** potentially some triggers for victims of abusive relationships? but it's k 'cos it's all for humour. (883 words)

Amy crept up to her front door, casting fearful looks over her shoulder. The front yard was empty, as was the street beyond. She withdrew her key but fumbled, needing two attempts to unlock the door. She opened it slowly, quietly, and closed it the same way.  
  
The house was dark. That is to say, no lights were switched on—there was still an abundance of natural light leaking in from behind the drawn curtains, as the sun had yet to set.  
  
Amy restrained her relief. She didn’t trust it. She stepped past the foyer and swallowed her nerves. “Victoria?” she said, dreading a response.  
  
All she got was silence.  
  
Amy sighed. “Thank God for that,” she said under her breath, wiping the sweat from her forehead and entering the house, rounding the corner to the lounge room.  
  
A light switched on. Amy shrieked, jumping into the air and flailing like a panicked cat. Her keys flew from her hands and landed on the coffee table.  
  
“Where have you been?”  
  
Amy’s feet finally reunited with the ground. She wobbled and held a hand out, supporting herself against the wall. “Jesus fucking Christ!” she said, closing her eyes and taking deep, calming breaths. _At least it isn’t Victoria_ , she consoled herself. “You couldn’t have at least waited with the light _on_ , Carol?”  
  
Carol sat in her favourite armchair, right beside Amy’s own ridiculously-expensive recliner—an unwanted result of Carol and Victoria’s gift-battle from last year; Amy was just glad it hadn’t ended in bloodshed again. Carol didn’t move. She didn’t even answer the question, rhetorical though it was. “Where have you been, Amy?”  
  
Amy made a conscious effort not to freeze. That would be a suspicious thing to do. “Hospital.” She swallowed as naturally as possible. “How was your day?”  
  
Carol leaned forward, interlocking her fingers. Her eyes were sharp in the darkness. “Why are you lying?”  
  
“H-huh?” Amy said. “I-I’m not! I was—”  
  
“I saw you,” Carol said, leaping to her feet. She stalked forward, each step echoing danger. “I know. You were seeing that Taylor girl again. Did you think I wouldn’t find out? I _saw you_! Laughing. I saw her _touch_ you. I thought you’d know better than to spend time with that… that _slut_!”  
  
Amy back-pedalled until she hit the wall, her legs scrambling fruitlessly. She was having difficulty speaking except in stammers and stutters. Amy would have expected this from Victoria, but Carol was supposed to be the _stable_ one… comparatively speaking. “Y-you followed me?” Amy said.  
  
“I had to keep you safe,” Carol said, her eyes unblinking, and more than a little wild. She stepped up to Amy, their faces only inches apart. Carol raised a hand to caress Amy’s cheek, running a thumb over Amy’s lips absently. “You’ll understand soon enough. How much I love you.”  
  
Amy trembled, feeling sweat bead on her forehead. “W-we weren’t doing anything!” she said. “It was just lunch! A-and a movie. But I—I’d never c-cheat on you, I swear! We’re just f-friends!”  
  
“YOU HELD HANDS!” Carol screamed.  
  
“I—she—it was an accident!”  
  
“No!” Carol turned away and began pacing in small, tight circles, shaking her head. “No, no, no. I’ve let this go on long enough. She’s trying to ruin what we have together. She’s trying to corrupt you, to make you like _her_. That _whore_ is trying to _take you from me_!” Carol growled like an animal, baring her teeth in the process. She snapped her arms out, and glowing red blades materialised on her forearms, ending eight inches beyond her fingers. Her eyes reflected the harsh red light. It made her look even more menacing. “I can’t let that happen. I _won’t_.”  
  
Carol turned and headed for the door. Amy leapt in front of her, panicking almost as much as that time Crystal had found Amy’s porn collection. “W-wait!” Amy said. “Please, Carol, you d-don’t have to do this.”  
  
Carol met Amy’s eyes with a soft gaze. “It’s for your own good. She’s trying to take you from me. I have to.”  
  
Amy clenched her fists to still their trembling. “N-no,” she said. “There’s nothing between Taylor and me, Carol. Trust me.” She licked her lips hesitantly. “Y-you’re all I need,” she said, then leaned up and kissed Carol on the cheek. “D-don’t worry about her.”  
  
Carol stared at Amy for a long moment. Then her entire face flushed a deep red in an instant. She spun on one heel and sprinted up the stairs, her blades disintegrating.  
  
Amy heard a door open, then close. It was followed by a moment of blissful silence.  
  
Then she heard Carol’s high-pitched, girlish squeals echo through the house.  
  
Amy sank to the floor, trembling all over. She didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. She just sat there, listening to her adoptive mother’s ecstatic freak-out until Carol finally seemed to tire herself out.  
  
Amy sighed into her hands. She’d have to be more careful on her dates with Taylor. That had nearly been a disaster.  
  
But, she consoled herself, at least she knew how to deal with Carol. For the most part.  
  
And hey, it could have been worse.  
  
It could have been Victoria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Amy and Taylor have become good friends by virtue of both being harem protagonists with life-ruining settings. They're not actually dating. ...yet?


	7. Alexis - Part 2 (old)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Preface:** Pending major rewrite. Part 1 can be found as its own work [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5467961). (7,926 words)
> 
>  **Contains:** unreliable narration. seriously.

_Beep_.  
  
“I’m sorry…” A girl’s voice. I struggled to understand. She sounded angry. “This is all my… should’ve… faster… you first…”  
  
_Beep_.  
  
“…sorry…”  
  
Blackness.  
  
—————————————————  
  
_Beep_.  
  
A hand on my lips, brushing away wetness.  
  
“Taylor?” Another girl’s voice. A different one, more familiar. “Thank you.” I twitched, involuntarily. The girl quieted for a moment, or maybe my hearing failed again.  
  
_Beep_.  
  
“… I never… my fault…” I heard crying—heaving sobs. I wanted to comfort her, reach out and wipe away her tears, but I couldn’t. “I wish I’d… sorry… I promise…”  
  
_Beep_.  
  
I felt myself slipping again.  
  
_Damn it_.  
  
—————————————————  
  
Consciousness came and went, a fleeting thing. Every time, I struggled to hold onto it. Sometimes I managed long enough to hear snippets of conversation, but seconds later, without fail, I would slip back into sleep.  
  
Sometimes I woke and felt nothing. Not the peace or calm of rest, just… nothing. As if my body did not exist, and my mind drifted in a void. Other times, I felt needles, stabbing into every inch of my skin and piercing to the bone, the ache driving me mad. Other times still, I woke to tingles in my stomach, a numbness spreading to my limbs and fading and repeating in waves, accompanied by a scorching heat that I was sure made me sweat, even if I couldn’t tell.  
  
But every waking moment was the same, in one way: I couldn’t move. If I could garner enough focus, I was able to twitch a finger or a foot, but that was difficult when consciousness itself was so fickle.  
  
Once, I managed to open my eyes. Just a fraction. Enough to see shapes, figures, surrounding my bed. People, wrapped in shimmering blurs of white and green and blue and pink, and maybe other colours, too—it was hard to tell. They turned to each other and spoke.  
  
“…should be dead…”  
  
“The other…”  
  
“The police want to…”  
  
“…injuries are severe… alive?”  
  
“Her recovery…”  
  
“…Parahuman?”  
  
“No… her records…”  
  
They spoke of many other things, too. But I only caught fragments. And those I did catch, I didn’t understand. I just couldn’t focus enough to make any sense of it all.  
  
They stuck a syringe in my arm and drained my life, my blood. The needle refracted light, casting redness about the room. Then they stuck another needle in me; a smaller one, connected to a bag with a long tube. I strained to fight, to pull away, but movement was beyond me. They left, taking my life with them.  
  
I tried to call after them, but I couldn’t do that either.  
  
My eyes felt heavy.  
  
_I don’t want to die._  
  
Blackness.  
  
—————————————————  
  
Danny slid into his chair with a sigh, reaching up to rub at his brow and leaning back as far as his chair would allow. The air-conditioner buzzed and whirred above him, cool air blowing down and calming him. The feeling was wonderful against his sweaty skin.  
  
Fall wasn’t meant to be this hot. Especially not so early in the morning.  
  
He sat there for a long few minutes, trying to relax, pointedly not looking at the stack of documents on his desk that needed his signature, demanded his attention. The tide never slowed. He could sign a hundred one day, and there’d be a hundred and ten more the next. If they ever amounted to anything, he wouldn’t mind. But they didn’t. Every last document was just bullshit politics and legal jargon. Nothing but busywork.  
  
It was too much. He just needed a moment to himself. Then he’d get back to it. Five minutes. It wouldn’t hurt anyone. The work would still get done. Just five minutes.  
  
His phone rang.  
  
He should have known that was too much to ask.  
  
For a long moment, he let it ring, and contemplated letting it go to the answering machine. But no, he couldn’t do that. The answering machine was broken, and the call might be important.  
  
Plus, the ringing was annoying him already.  
  
With another heavy sigh, he plucked the receiver from its cradle and held it to his ear. “Daniel Hebert speaking.”  
  
“Ah, Mr. Hebert,” a man spoke, the shoddy speaker crackling quietly. “My name is Raymond Turner. I work at Boston General Hospital. You are the father of one Taylor Rose Hebert, yes?”  
  
Danny frowned, thoughts of the girl rising unbidden to his mind, accompanied of course by thoughts of Annette. His hand tightened around the receiver. “I… Yes, that’s me. What’s this about?”  
  
The man cleared his throat. “Your daughter was admitted to Boston General yesterday, sir, at approximately four o’clock. She’s currently unconscious, and we’ve put her on an intravenous drip.”  
  
Danny sighed again. He _had_ renewed their insurance, hadn’t he? “What happened?” he said. “Did she trip on the sidewalk?”  
  
“Uh, I’m afraid not, sir,” the other man said. “As I understand it, her class was on a group excursion at the Boston Tower when a supervillain entered the building and took the occupants captive. Your daughter and the villain engaged in an altercation during hostage negotiations. The fight ended when they both fell from a window, approximately one hundred feet up.”  
  
Danny went very still.  
  
“Ms. Hebert—“ Danny twitched at the name “—has suffered dozens of injuries, including first- and second-degree burns, gunshot wounds, numerous lacerations and broken bones, and a severe concussion, but… she’s alive.”  
  
Wood creaked. Danny glanced down and saw his other hand clenching the broken edge of his desk, the place he always hit when he was frustrated. Tiny chips of wood poked his palm. It hurt. “I see,” he said, slowly. “She’s alive, you said?”  
  
“Yes, sir. We’ve prescribed anti-inflammatories and analgesics, and all signs point to a complete recovery. It could take months just to regain full use of her hand, not to speak of her other injuries. But all things considered, she’s a very lucky girl. Visiting hours are—”  
  
“You said she was admitted yesterday? Why am I only being called now?”  
  
“Uh, we tried phoning you yesterday, sir. At your registered home address, and at this number. Neither number was answered, but we did leave messages.”  
  
Danny grimaced. That would’ve been the call last night—the one he _had_ ignored. And he’d forgotten to check the voicemail that morning. _Dammit_. “I—fuck’s sake. What were you saying? About visiting hours?”  
  
“Visiting hours are ten to four, sir.”  
  
Danny glanced at the clock on his wall. Eight past nine. Of course. He’d only just checked in. “Thank you, Mr. Turner,” he said. “Is there anything else?”  
  
“Uh… No, sir.”  
  
“Alright,” Danny said. “Goodbye.” He hung up the phone, returning it to its cradle, then buried his head in his hands and sat stock still, doing nothing else.  
  
He wasn’t sure how to feel. Taylor was… god, he wasn’t even sure of the answer to _that_. She was… a _reminder_. Of Annette. Of everything he’d done wrong. He’d never wanted kids—being a good father was not something that ran in the Hebert family—but Annette had. And she’d been resolute, so Danny had caved, but Taylor had always been _her_ little project. Not his. Never his. The girl was a stranger to him. But…  
  
He looked up, eyes drifting to the stack of paperwork on his desk. Two hours to Boston. An hour at the hospital, maybe two. Another two hours back. And that’s if traffic was good. It’d take up most of his work day, regardless. He’d never get the paperwork done. It’d all carry over to tomorrow’s workload, unless he worked overtime. And he had an important meeting this afternoon with a construction company looking to expand…  
  
His gaze moved to the framed photograph propped beside his pen cup. A photograph of Annette, smiling that smile of hers. She was holding Taylor—only seven years old then—in her lap, their hair caught billowing in the wind, their clothes wet and sandy from playing in the ocean.  
  
He stared at the photograph for a long minute, not moving. Then another.  
  
Finally, he sighed, bowing his head.  
  
“You’re right,” he said to the empty air, standing. “Of course you’re right. You always are.” Another sigh escaped as he grabbed his keys from the bowl on his desk. “I can’t ignore this.” Turning, he marched out of his office, slipping his coat off the door-hanger and onto his shoulders as he passed.  
  
“Danny!” Anderson’s voice. The man hurried up to walk alongside him. “What’s up? The appointment with Devon’s not ’til noon, y’know.”  
  
“I know,” Danny said without turning. “I need you to cover for me. There’s somewhere I have to go, and I’m not sure if I’ll get back in time.”  
  
“Oh? I can do that, I guess. Where are you goin’?”  
  
“Boston.” He pushed open the door. ”My—my daughter’s in trouble.”  
  
—————————————————  
  
The drive felt longer than it was. Traffic wasn’t bad, once he got on the freeway, and he didn’t encounter any idiots or jams, for which he was thankful, but it was dull. The radio only played ads and pop music, and he turned it off after a few minutes. Which only left him with nothing to do but think.  
  
But he didn’t _want_ to think. Seeing Taylor was always hard, and he knew he was not a strong man. He might change his mind. Turn the car around, go back to Brockton Bay, return to the everyday monotony, that endless, futile act of bucketing water out of a sinking ship. Taylor was alive, after all. He didn’t _need_ to see her. But Annette would want him to go. She’d _make_ him go, and she’d be disappointed in him if he didn’t—even more disappointed than she must be now. Even more than she was before she died.  
  
No. He didn’t want to think. So instead, he drove, focusing on the minutiae actions involved therein. A twist of the wheel at the right time, the right amount of pressure on the pedals, a keen eye kept scanning the road ahead.  
  
Just enough to keep his mind occupied.  
  
Two hours later—or a little over, perhaps—Danny turned into the Boston General parking lot. He wound up the windows and locked the door of his truck manually—it was too old for one of those key-chain lock clickers—then headed for the wide, glass double-doors of the hospital.  
  
Stepping into the air-conditioning made him sigh, even as the smell of sterility filled his nostrils. He walked up to the reception desk and tapped his knuckles on the cool wood.  
  
The nearest woman looked up and wheeled her chair over. “Can I help you?” she said with a smile.  
  
Danny rapped his knuckles again. “I’m here to see Taylor Hebert,” he said. “I’m her father.”  
  
“Just a moment,” the woman said, holding up a finger and turning to her computer. Her name-tag read ‘Janice’. She pursed her lips. “You’re Daniel James Hebert?”  
  
He nodded absently, studying the various pamphlets in little displays on the desk, about organ donation and adoption and breast cancer and… all sorts of things.  
  
“I see,” she said, then gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Our system’s acting up. I’ll go look her up manually for you, shall I?” She gestured at the rows of crappy hospital seats arrayed along the walls of the reception. “Please, take a seat. Won’t be just a minute.”  
  
With that, she stood and entered a back room, slipping around a corner and moving out of sight. “Dammit,” Danny muttered, turning and taking a seat close to the desk.  
  
He twiddled his thumbs and tapped his fingers against his thighs for the better part of five minutes, frustration building. He looked around. Nurses and doctors and even a few patients moved through the halls, some fast, some slow, all with somewhere to be. The receptionist still hadn’t returned.  
  
_This shouldn’t be taking so long_.  
  
With an irritated grumble, Danny stood and walked over to the nearest person wearing hospital clothes—a nurse, wearing pink scrubs. Or maybe an orderly; he wasn’t sure what the difference was. He tapped the man on the shoulder. “Where’s Taylor Hebert’s room?” he said. “I’m here to visit.”  
  
The nurse blinked at Danny, looking up from the clipboard in his hands. “The hero girl? Uh, she’s in room 203, I think. Second floor, west wing.” He turned and pointed down the hall. “Stairs are that way.”  
  
Danny grunted thanks and headed in the direction the man had pointed. He found the stairs easy enough, and followed them up, then looked at the door numbers to find his way.  
  
His destination wasn’t hard to find. It was right next to the staircase. And the door to her room was open.  
  
He hesitated outside, just for a moment. Then he berated himself and stepped through. The room was small, with a tiny television mounted on the wall above a small stack of chairs, a fire extinguisher, and a folded-up wheelchair. There were only two beds, opposite the television, with a curtain partitioning them.  
  
One was unoccupied. The other was hers.  
  
His breath caught.  
  
She didn’t look well.  
  
Her forehead was wrapped in a bandage, but the rest of her face was bruised all over and peppered with angry red cuts, more of which were scattered about her arms and legs. Most were small, tiny little slices that would heal over fine in a few weeks, but a few were larger, more misshapen and inflamed, the bleeding more profuse. Several more bandages were taped down on her limbs, some showing blood.  
  
One hand was wrapped loosely in another bandage and hooked into a little swing, raising it up at an angle. The bandage was stained with pus, and the tips of her fingers poked out of it, the flesh burned and blackened. That must be what the man on the phone had been talking about.  
  
Another bandage was taped to her cheek, completely covering whatever wound lay beneath, though the material there was also darkened and stained. Her other arm—and one leg—were each encased in casts and elevated in a similar manner to her burned hand.  
  
A small tube connected her uninjured arm to a bag filled with clear liquid, and little wires ran from her chest to a machine by the bed—an EKG? It beeped intermittently.  
  
But despite it all, she was sleeping peacefully, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm Danny didn’t know.  
  
A nurse stood beside the bed, her back turned to him. She removed an oxygen mask from Taylor’s mouth and hooked it to the small wheel-table by the bed, then turned to leave, starting when she saw Danny. She looked at him for a moment, then glanced back at Taylor. “Do you know her?”  
  
Danny looked away from the bed. “I’m her father,” he said. It felt like a lie, in a hundred different ways.  
  
“She’ll be okay,” the nurse said, turning back to him. “Just wait and see.” She gave a sad smile. “You should be proud of her, you know. She saved lives yesterday.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
The nurse patted him on the back, then moved past him, leaving him alone. He stood a few feet from Taylor’s bedside, staring at her. He wasn’t sure what to feel. He felt _something_ , that was for certain. But he wasn’t sure _what_.  
  
He heard movement behind him, and turned.  
  
Two policemen stood in the doorway, fully outfitted. Behind them stood the receptionist woman, Janice. “That’s him,” she said, levelling a finger at Danny.  
  
The policemen stepped forward. “Sir,” one said, holding out a hand in a placating manner. “We’re going to have to ask that you come down to the station with us.”  
  
Danny turned to face them completely. “What?” he said. “Why? I haven’t done anything wrong. I just got here.”  
  
“We just have a few routine questions, sir.”  
  
Danny frowned. “About what?”  
  
“You’ll find out at the station,” the second policeman said, stepping forward and putting a hand on Danny’s shoulder, pulling him forward.  
  
Danny slapped the hand away. “Don’t touch me,” he growled.  
  
The first policeman’s hand shot to his belt, wrapping around the taser he wore. His other hand remained outstretched. “Sir, please calm down. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”  
  
Danny glared at him, and at the other policeman, his hand in a similar position. He glanced at Taylor, still resting. “Dammit,” he muttered, turning back to the policemen. “Fine.”  
  
—————————————————  
  
Madison walked up the reception desk, resting her hands on the edge. “Excuse me.”  
  
A woman looked up. Madison remembered her. “Ah,” Mrs. Francis said, cocking her head. “I know you… You came in yesterday, didn’t you?”  
  
“Uh, yes,” Madison said. “Madison Clements, here to see Taylor Hebert.”  
  
“Of course, of course.” Mrs. Francis smiled, scribbling Madison’s name down in the visitor book. “You’re a good friend, you know that? Coming to see her like this, even though she’s asleep.”  
  
Madison glanced down at her feet. She couldn’t meet the woman’s eyes. “Um, can I go up?”  
  
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Francis said. “Go right ahead.”  
  
Madison nodded and headed down the hall. She passed a pair of policemen escorting a tall man on the stairs— _I wonder what that’s about?_ —and then she was on the second floor, standing by Taylor’s door.  
  
She hesitated. Again. Just like when she’d visited yesterday, after the paramedics had done her up and the police and PRT had finished interviewing her—separately. It just didn’t feel _right_ to enter the room, given the… specifics of their relationship. Lying to the nurses didn’t help matters.  
  
Still, she took a deep breath and stepped through the threshold, moving to the far wall. She dragged a chair over to Taylor’s bedside and sat in it, placing her book in her lap and gently laying her hands over it.  
  
Taylor breathed slowly—in, then out—but showed no reaction. The only sounds were her breathing and the regular _beeps_ of the machine by her bed. She was still asleep.  
  
“Taylor?“ Madison said, leaning forward. “I, um… How—“ She paused and cleared her throat. “Uh, so… are—are you doing okay?”  
  
There was no response. Obviously.  
  
Madison winced. “Sorry. Stupid question. Of course you aren’t. Um…” She trailed off again, unsure of what to say. It hadn’t been any easier yesterday—or… had it? She’d still been running on an emotional high, then. She hadn’t thought about what she was saying at all. This was different. This time, she didn’t have that… advantage, if that’s what it was. And she was pulling a blank.  
  
_Okay_ , Madison thought. _Start with something safe_. “Uh, we missed the return bus, yesterday,” she said. “So Mr. Gladly booked all of us into a hotel. Covered the expenses himself, and phoned everyone’s parents. A lot of them drove up themselves, and most kids left with them. Mr. Gladly said the rest of us would be going back today. This afternoon.”  
  
She swallowed. “My parents came up, too. They were… worried about me. They wanted me to go back with them early, like the others. But I—I’m not going. I’m not. Not with them, and not with Mr. Gladly. Not until you wake up, or—or until the hospital transfers you back to Brockton Bay. I promise.”  
  
She coughed into her hand a few times, then sniffed. “My mom wasn’t very happy with me about that,” she continued. “B-but I don’t care. I’ll visit every day. And I have some money saved up from birthdays, so I can afford a hotel until… uh…” Another pause. “My dad was a little more, um, understanding, once I told him what happened. He—he said I was being stupid, but he approved. Told my mom to deal. He asked what your room number was, too. I—heh, I think he’s going to send you a fruit basket, or something.  
  
“I… talked with Emma, too. And Sophia. Last night. They asked me what happened. I told them. The truth. That you… you…” She stopped and looked down at her hands, each wrapped in loose strips of bandage. Moving them too much still hurt a little. They were shaking, now. She stilled them and turned away, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “You saved me, Taylor.”  
  
_Beep_.  
  
For a minute, she said nothing. Then she sniffed again, and turned back in Taylor’s direction, but not looking at her face, instead fixing her eyes on a wrinkle in the bed sheets.  
  
“They reacted weirdly,” Madison said. “Emma and Sophia, I mean. Emma looked… happy _,_ for a second. Actually fucking _happy_ , like this shit is somehow a _good_ thing! The bitch. And fucking Sophia wasn’t any better. She didn’t even _believe_ me. She told me to _stop lying_. I—I think she was about to hit me. But she didn’t. She went off somewhere, and Emma followed her. I didn’t see them this morning. I think they went back with Emma’s parents.”  
  
Madison took a deep breath, but paused, then looked at Taylor’s face— _properly_. She was still a mess. But… she looked better than she had last night. Spotting a glimmer of wetness on Taylor’s lip, Madison reached out one hand, placing her fingers beneath Taylor’s chin and using a thumb to wipe away the drool.  
  
But she didn’t remove her hand. Instead, she turned Taylor’s head so her injured cheek was visible. Hesitant fingers peeled back the bandage. The flesh beneath was still inflamed, but it definitely looked better than it had yesterday. Less red, less… scarring. Better. She stared at it for a minute, the four thin outlines of that _bastard’s_ fingers stamped on Taylor’s face. Then, as gently as she could, Madison taped the bandage back down and moved her hands down to rest on Taylor’s.  
  
Madison sniffed, and silence lingered. Then: “My dad always told me to pay my debts. You know, return favours. That kind of thing. And I… I definitely owe you. A lot.” She paused again. “Another thing he always said was that I should t-treat others the way I’d like to be treated. I—I haven’t done very well there, have I?”  
  
No response. Madison shook her head. “But I—I’m going to do better. I am. When—when you get back, I won’t let them hurt you anymore. I promise. I won’t let them hurt _anyone_.” Her hands tightened around Taylor’s. It hurt. “And if—if you want me to, I’ll tell the principal. A-and the c-cops. I-I’ll tell them everything. All of it. We could probably get Sophia sent to juvie. She’ll never be able to bother anyone again, yeah? I won’t— _we_ won’t let her.  
  
“And I—I’ll c-compensate you. For the, uh, property damage. Take you shopping, maybe. Y-you’re not ugly, like we said you were. Not even a little. Just the opposite. I-if I helped, you could probably be a model! More successful than Emma, even. Rub her face in it, if you want. I could teach you makeup—uh, Emma said you never learned—and get you some nice dresses, or something…” She hunched over Taylor’s bedside, trying and failing to still her trembles. “Whatever you want, I’ll do it. A-anything. S-so, please, just…”  
  
A sob escaped her throat.  
  
“Don’t die.”  
  
—————————————————  
  
The woman stepped out of the van, smoothing her jeans, straightening her jacket, and lowering the hood, then moved up to the driver’s side window. “Keep the engine running,” she said. “Be ready to—“  
  
“I _know_ ,” the driver said with exasperation. “We’ve been over this a hundred times.”  
  
The woman nodded. “Just making sure,” she said. “Message me if there’s any trouble.” Then she turned on a heel and entered the hospital, walking right past the reception desk.  
  
She knew where she was headed.  
  
Her skin tingled, prickling with anxiety. Apprehension. Maybe even anticipation. Her eyes darted about as she walked, taking in everything. Memorising faces, comparing them. Analysing body language, movement patterns, watching for any attention on her. Her ears were similarly tuned as she eavesdropped on the passing conversations, listening for anything suspicious, any familiar voices—anyone she recognised would only be trouble here. So she watched, for anything at all that could indicate a trap…  
  
_There_! A man in a doctor’s coat was watching her out of the corner of his eyes. He’d paused in a conversation with another man, who was also looking her up and down. She tensed. Plants? Dammit! How had they gotten in position so damn _fast_? The man leaned over to whisper in his companion’s ear as she passed, keeping an eye on them with the reflection on a metal cabinet in the hall.  
  
She needed a plan, a way to deal with them. Did they recognise her? That would complicate matters. They’d be in contact with—wait, no. Neither had looked at her face yet. Even as the thought occurred to her, both men’s eyes slid downward, to her hips.  
  
They were _ogling_ her.  
  
She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second and released her held breath. Of course there weren’t any spies here. She’d only learned of Taylor’s admittance less than half an hour ago, when the hospital had received her blood-test results, and the woman had broken several traffic laws getting here as fast as she had. She couldn’t have been beaten. And if Leon had been quick enough at falsifying the records, there probably wouldn’t be any trouble at all.  
  
Still, she couldn’t stop herself from feeling for the handgun tucked into her jacket pocket. Just to confirm it was there. It was, of course—she’d made sure of that—but just touching it made her feel more confident. Less out of place, as contradictory as that was.  
  
The two men turned back to their conversation, no longer taking any notice of her. Their body language was relaxed, open, friendly. No. Definitely not spies. Impersonating doctors was often more trouble than it was worth, anyway. Janitors were better.  
  
She turned and took the stairs one at a time. A part of her mind screamed there was no _time_ , she had to move _faster_! But hurrying would only draw attention. Cresting the stairs, she walked a few more feet and stopped.  
  
Room 203W.  
  
She entered the room and walked to Taylor’s bedside. Another girl sat beside the bed, reading aloud the book held in her bandaged hands. A brunette, petite. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she stopped reading and looked up when the woman neared.  
  
The woman ignored her, instead looking at Taylor, still unconscious. She was a mess, covered in injuries almost head to toe. The damage was more extensive than the woman had expected, too—and that would make things difficult.  
  
But all the same, she recognised the girl’s face. It was hard not to. She’d seen it a thousand times.  
  
“Um… can I help you?” the brunette said.  
  
The woman glanced at her. How to play this? She looked the girl up and down, taking in body language while she analysed her speech. Taylor Hebert was a student, and this girl likely was, too. Combined with the obvious timidity…  
  
After a moment of thought, she set her jaw and shifted her feet, setting them just a little bit wider, then squared her shoulders and straightened her spine. She stared down at the brunette’s eyes and spoke in an authoritarian tone, “What’s your name?”  
  
“Madison,” the brunette said on instinct, shrinking into her seat a little. “Um…”  
  
“Are you her friend?” the woman said, nodding toward the bed.  
  
Madison tried to hide a wince, but failed. “Y-yes. From school.” Confirmation. Good. The girl stiffened, a slight frown creasing her brow. “Who are you?”  
  
The woman paused, turning to the bed to hide her hesitation, but continued to watch Madison out of the corner of her eye. What did the wince mean? Was she lying? Why would she lie about being Taylor’s friend? Unless _she_ was a plant, but… no. Madison was too young for that. Guilt? Why? Had she been at the Tower? The injuries suggested yes…  
  
If the reports she’d read were accurate, Taylor had attacked a bank robber. Most of the hostages had injuries of some description, but they were mostly minor cuts and burns. Nothing that required bandages. No, Madison’s hands were a positive indication she’d been more personally involved, closer to the action. The villain had taken a girl hostage, according to the witness reports. Was that Madison? Had Taylor rescued her? That may explain the guilt—if that’s what it was.  
  
But more important was the other question.  
  
Could she use that?  
  
“Um, excuse me?” Madison said, frowning. “I asked you a question. Who are you?”  
  
The woman glanced back at Madison. _Fuck it_ , she thought, taking a deep breath.  
  
“My name is Ashley,” she said with a reassuring smile. “I’m her sister.”  
  
—————————————————  
  
Danny slammed the door of the taxi, then threw a pair of twenties at the driver to quiet his curses and stalked across the parking lot to the hotel. A bell tinkled as he pushed the door open, but he barely noticed it.  
  
A black-skinned man sat behind a protective window in the lobby, flipping through a newspaper. He looked up as Danny approached. “Single-bed room costs eighty for a night.”  
  
Danny scowled, slapping down his card. The proprietor made the transaction and passed over the key, which Danny snatched from his hand, turning to march up the stairs.  
  
“Good day to you, too,” the proprietor called.  
  
Danny ignored him.  
  
The door to Danny’s room slammed shut behind him, but he paid it no mind, immediately making his way to the phone. There, he punched in the numbers and waited for the click.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Anderson,” Danny said. “It’s me.”  
  
“Danny? I was just thinking about calling you, ’til I remembered you don’t have a cell. How’s Taylor?”  
  
“She’s in the hospital. I—“ His free hand curled into a fist. “Listen, something’s come up. I might not be coming in again this week.”  
  
“The hospital? Shit, man. Is she okay?”  
  
“She’s fine, it’s just—I have a few things to take care of before I come back. Can you tell the guys?”  
  
“Of course!” Anderson sounded scandalised, but Danny was too tired to care. “Don’t you worry ‘bout us, yeah? We’ll get Jim to fill in for you. And don’t worry about Hank, neither. He’ll understand. His daughter has leukaemia, y’know.”  
  
Danny pinched his nose. “Thanks,” he said. “I—How’d the meeting go?”  
  
“No problems there,” Anderson said. “Alexander took point, used your pitch. They said they’d send over some contracts in a week or two.”  
  
“Good, that’s good.” He paused, and sighed. “Fuck. I’m sorry, I have to—“  
  
“No, no,” Anderson said. “I told you, don’t worry about us. Take care of your own shit first, man. We’ll still be here when you get back, yeah?”  
  
“Alright. You’re right.” An exhale of breath, slow and long. “I’ll… talk to you later, Anderson.”  
  
“See you, Danny. Give Taylor my best wishes.”  
  
_Click_.  
  
Danny lowered the phone slowly. For a long minute, he didn’t move. Then he sat on the bed and buried his head in his hands.  
  
Abuse? They thought he was fucking _abusing_ her?  
  
His hands formed fists against his face. They trembled.  
  
He would _never_ raise a hand against a woman. And he never had, not once in his—no. Once. The one time he hated to remember. An argument with Annette, her usual stubbornness entering the field. It was petty. Stupid. Inane. He hadn’t separated the recyclables properly. And the day had been long, a half-dozen men poached by the gangs, a pervading sense of futility that still had yet to fade.  
  
Anger flowing through his veins.  
  
Blood dripping on the linoleum.  
  
The look on her face, that he still remembered as if it were yesterday, even after all these years.  
  
But he’d sworn it wouldn’t happen again. Promised to control his temper better. And she’d gone off to fetch the first-aid kit and helped him clean the blood, and they’d silently agreed to pretend it hadn’t happened. And he’d kept that promise, no matter how hard it had been sometimes.  
  
No. He had never hit Taylor, and never would. He’d never even _thought_ about it. He had no _reason_ to. She was the picture of perfect behaviour around the house.  
  
But the police… they’d shown him the pictures. The bruises the covered fifty, sixty percent of her body, maybe more. The injuries that couldn’t be accounted for by what happened at the Tower. The ones that were weeks old, even _months_.  
  
And they hadn’t believed him when he said he didn’t know. They’d even called Child Protection Services, and told him he would not be allowed to see her until the truth was determined. Which might not even happen until Taylor woke up, and was deemed fit to give testimony.  
  
The bruises couldn’t be denied, though. _Someone_ was abusing her—she certainly wasn’t doing it to _herself_. But he didn’t know _who_ , and had no idea how to find out. No leads. No nothing.  
  
He sighed. Maybe the police were right. Beatings weren’t the only form of abuse. Neglect was counted in the same list. And as much as he’d like to think otherwise, maybe he _had_ been neglectful.  
  
After all, he had seen her injuries before. Some of them. He knew they existed. How could he not? One day she’d limp around the house, even if she tried to hide it. Another day there’d be blood staining the floor or her clothes, sometimes enough that the washing machine couldn’t erase it. The frequent winces when she bent too far or stretched too wide or bumped into something. And just last week—had it even been that long? He had no idea—he’d seen the cut on her wrist.  
  
But he hadn’t said anything. Just turned away, put it out of his mind. It wasn’t his problem.  
  
Not the attitude of a father.  
  
On the other end of the spectrum, he’d given her everything she needed. He’d made sure there was always two sets of dinners in the freezer; provided her any money she required for school books or busses or clothes; kept the power and gas and water running, even on his worst days, when just getting out of bed was a struggle, and he used none of those himself.  
  
But that wasn’t enough. He knew that. Children needed more than material goods. They needed care and support and attention and… other things. Emotional things.  
  
Love.  
  
And in all honesty, he’d never provided that.  
  
He’d never even tried.  
  
With a garbled hiss of frustration, he lay back on the bed, spreading his arms. It wasn’t particularly comfortable. But no bed was, these days. At least there was enough softness there to let him sink in. He kicked his shoes off and closed his eyes.  
  
For a few minutes, he just lay there, trying not to think, trying to relax. And it actually _worked_. To a certain degree.  
  
Cracking an eye, he glanced over at the clock. It wasn’t even two o’clock yet. Daylight still filtered in through the mostly-closed curtains. But he was tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally. So very, very tired.  
  
He sighed again. He needed to pick up his truck, still at the hospital. And sort this mess out with the police. And then he could see Taylor, properly. Maybe start making up for things. Be the father Annette had always said he could be—or try to, at least. And he had to do it all soon, so he could get back to work.  
  
But… that could all wait for tomorrow.  
  
He threw a pillow over his face and rolled onto his side.  
  
Taylor wasn’t going anywhere.  
  
—————————————————  
  
Madison blinked. _Sister? I thought Taylor was an only child_.  
  
She looked the woman up and down. The resemblance was definitely there—the woman had the same big brown eyes, the same wide mouth, even the same height. The biggest differences were her hair—straight, short, and raven-black rather than curly, long, and brown—which could easily be dyed and styled, and her _age_. This woman looked a similar age to Emma’s older sister, Anne, or maybe older. Early twenties, Madison thought.  
  
They _could_ be sisters, but… something didn’t feel right.  
  
She narrowed her eyes. “Taylor never mentioned having a sister,” Madison said, watching the woman in front of her for a reaction.  
  
The woman—Ashley?—picked up the chart that hung from the foot of Taylor’s bed and studied it with pursed lips. “I’d be surprised if she had,” she said, casting a momentary glance at Madison. “She doesn’t know I exist.”  
  
“You—“ Madison clicked her mouth shut. “What?”  
  
Ashley smirked. “Do you actually need me to say that again?”  
  
Madison flushed. “No. But…” She cocked her head, smiling slightly. “If you’re her sister, you’ll be able to answer a few questions, right?”  
  
Ashley glanced at her again. “Shoot.”  
  
“What’s her dad’s name?”  
  
“Daniel Hebert,” Ashley answered without looking up. “Why?”  
  
Madison went to speak, but paused. She didn’t actually know what Taylor’s dad’s name was—Emma had only ever called him ‘Mr. Hebert.’ _Good job, Madison. You idiot_. “How can she not know?”  
  
“We’ve never met.” She put the chart back on the bed frame and walked around to Taylor’s side. “Obviously.”  
  
Another ridiculous statement. “ _How_?” Madison said. “Why would Mr. Hebert not tell her?”  
  
“He doesn’t know, either,” Ashley said, leaning forward and gripping Taylor’s head with one hand, turning it left and right.  
  
“He doesn’t—What are you doing?”  
  
Ashley peeled back Taylor’s eyelids, one at a time, leaning in to observe. Madison frowned. She was just opening her mouth to repeat the question when Ashley slapped Taylor across the face.  
  
“Hey!” Madison jumped up and reached out to knock Ashley’s hand away, glaring at the woman. Her book fell to the floor. “Don’t do that! What’s wrong with you?“  
  
Ashley shook her hand off easily, glaring back. “I need to know how bad her condition is. If she can move, if she can talk. If she can register what we’re saying. It’s important.”  
  
“Of course she can’t move! She’s unconscious!”  
  
“I know,” Ashley said, stepping forward. “That’s why I’m slapping her.” Then she did it again.  
  
“Stop it!” Madison said, hurrying around the bed and putting herself between Taylor and Ashley, spreading her arms. “Don’t touch her!”  
  
Ashley stared at Madison for a moment, her face betraying nothing. Then she nodded in Taylor’s direction. “She’s awake.”  
  
Madison turned and froze. She was right. Taylor rolled her head around lazily, her eyes blinking and squinting beneath furrowed brows. Her mouth worked in silence. She moved an arm—the broken one—and gave a feeble, wordless cry of pain. Madison winced.  
  
Ashley pushed Madison aside and leaned over Taylor’s bed, holding her head in gentle hands. “Taylor?” she said. “Can you hear me?”  
  
“Uhh?” was the only response.  
  
“If you can understand me, I want you to move your arm.” Ashley patted her unbroken arm on the shoulder. “This one. Can you do that?”  
  
Silence.  
  
The arm moved.  
  
Madison sunk to her knees.  
  
“Good, good,” Ashley said, smiling. “My name’s Ashley, okay? I’m going to get you out of here. Don’t worry. Just sit tight.”  
  
She left Taylor’s bedside for a moment and came back with a wheelchair, which she unfolded and set aside. Then she disconnected the EKG wires and withdrew the IV and started undoing the slings on Taylor’s broken limbs. Taylor groaned quietly.  
  
Madison’s eyes widened as Ashley’s words sunk in. “No!” she said, jumping to her feet and interposing herself between them again. “Y-you’re not taking her anywhere! She needs to stay in the hospital, so she can get better.”  
  
Ashley glared at her. “I can provide private medical care,” she said. “Better than this. And she’s _my_ sister. You have no right to interfere.”  
  
“But you—“ Madison thought as fast as she could. “You can’t just _take_ her! You have to fill out a transfer form.”  
  
“We don’t have the _time_ ,” Ashley growled. “ _I_ found her. And while I did my best to avoid it, I doubt I’m the only one who did. Others won’t be far behind.”  
  
“Wha—Others? Like who?”  
  
Ashley stepped in close, making Madison shrink back as she leaned down to her height. “That villain Taylor attacked? He’s dead. Died on impact.”  
  
Madison’s eyes widened. She’d _thought_ , but… if he’d died, how had Taylor survived?  
  
“His name was Friedrich Burch,” Ashley continued. “He had a _long_ rap sheet of assault and theft, though powers were a new addition.”  
  
“S-so? What does it matter? He’s d-dead.”  
  
“Yes, but he belonged to one of the local gangs.” Ashley met Madison’s eyes with a piercing stare. “And do you _really_ believe he didn’t have any friends?”  
  
—————————————————  
  
Ashley watched as Madison paled, her face turning chalk-white in seconds. Then the girl started shaking.  
  
_Okay,_ Ashley thought. _Maybe that worked a little_ too _well._  
  
Madison swallowed. “Y-you mean—“  
  
“Yes.” No need to say any more. Lies always worked better the less detail one provided. The girl’s imagination would fill in the rest. “They could get here any minute, for all we know. We need to move her. For her own safety.”  
  
Madison didn’t say anything.  
  
“You want to keep her safe, don’t you?”  
  
Madison glanced up, her lip trembling. She gave a jerky nod.  
  
Ashley made her face gentle, relaxing the muscles and smiling softly. “So do I,” she said. “And I promise you, this is the best way. She’s not safe here.” Slowly, she reached out a hand and placed it on Madison’s shoulder. “Will you help me?”  
  
Madison swallowed again, and looked at Taylor. For a long moment, she said nothing, and Ashley itched to shove her out of the way and do it herself. But Madison was an obstacle, and ignoring her could be disastrous.  
  
Then, finally, Madison turned back to Ashley and nodded. Together, they lifted Taylor from the bed and lowered her to the wheelchair—though Madison looked about to cry from Taylor’s near-silent whimpers, until Taylor slipped back into sleep. Ashley secured the belt around Taylor’s waist and turned the wheelchair to Madison.  
  
“You push,” Ashley said, lifting her hood as she turned and headed for the door. “Follow me.”  
  
Madison nodded. Her face was still deathly pale, but she grasped the handles lightly, hiding a grimace of pain, and did as she was told.  
  
Ashley led them through the hall and to the elevator, taking it down to the first floor. She tapped her feet. The music annoyed her, for a whole five seconds. Then the doors slid open, and they entered another hallway, turning and heading for the lobby. Ashley could almost see Madison’s nerves fraying, the way the girl bit her lip. But she’d hold.  
  
They rounded a corner and came face to face with a group of three. Two severe looking men in suits, and a wrinkled, portly man.  
  
Seymour.  
  
Their eyes met.  
  
He spoke. “Ash—“  
  
She pulled the gun from her jacket and fired at one of his men in one motion—not a shot meant to kill, just distract. The bullet took the bodyguard in the knee, and he collapsed with a garbled shout, accompanied by screams from the nearby nurses—and Madison. She barely heard any of it with how her ears rang. She hadn’t meant to hit him, but now wasn’t the time to stop and apologise.  
  
In a fraction of a second, the other bodyguard grabbed Seymour by the lapels and dived into a neighbouring room, pulling his client along with a yelp.  
  
Ashley spun on Madison, the girl wide-eyed and trembling. “Go!” she snapped, pushing the girl forward with her spare hand. Madison stumbled, but her feet caught on and set her running full-tilt for the door, even if she didn’t consciously register it.  
  
“To the parking lot!” Ashley said, turning back around. The bodyguard peeked around the doorway and shot at her, the dart burying itself in the wall. She fired vaguely in his direction, and he ducked behind the wall again. “I’m right behind you!”  
  
The other bodyguard reached out to grab her ankle, but she kicked him in the face and pulled clear, sprinting after Madison.  
  
“Stop!”  
  
Doctors and nurses and others all jumped out of her way as she ran. More muted shots rang out from behind her, and she twisted around to fire another pair of covering shots, ignoring how her hands trembled.  
  
“Stop shooting, dammit!”  
  
_Fuck you, Seymour_.  
  
The lobby was empty when she ran through, all the visitors ducked behind chairs or the reception desk. That served her fine. She burst out the doors just behind Madison, shoes thudding on the asphalt.  
  
“The van!” she called. Madison glanced back, panic writ large on her face. Ashley pointed. “That one!”  
  
The van in question pulled up just ahead of them, Cassandra leaning out the window and beckoning frantically. A gunshot exploded, resounding about the parking lot, much louder than any others, even hers.  
  
Blood spurted onto the asphalt.  
  
Madison collapsed with a scream, rolling limply.  
  
Taylor rolled forward, coming to a stop when she bumped into the van.  
  
_Fuck!_  
  
“Cass!”  
  
Ashley’s mind kicked into overdrive. Madison had taken the hit to her collarbone, left shoulder. The sound had been loudest from the same direction. She spun, raising the pistol in a two-handed grip. Light glimmered on a rooftop. The trajectory, the angle, was calculated. Her hands didn’t tremble this time.  
  
She fired.  
  
Her aim was imperfect.  
  
The bullet hit the ridge just beneath the sniper’s nest. But it was enough to make him—or her—roll away, leaving the gun behind.  
  
Ashley shot again, just to be sure, while ducking down to wrap an arm around Madison. With awkward movements, she dragged Madison to the van. At the same time, Cassandra heaved Taylor’s wheelchair into the back and locked the wheels down, then climbed back into the driver’s seat.  
  
“Hurry up!”  
  
Ashley saw motion on the roof, and fired again. And again. Then she spun and shot twice at the hospital walls, in case Seymour’s bodyguard had decided to follow. He hadn’t.  
  
She threw Madison’s limp body into the back of the van. The girl groaned as she landed with a _thump_ , then Ashley climbed in herself.  
  
“Drive!”  
  
“I am!” Cass yelled as the van rumbled into movement.  
  
Another rifle shot sounded, a bullet punching clear through the rear of the van and continuing through the bottom, barely missing Ashley’s thigh. She jerked out of reflex and fell on her back beside the open door, rolling onto her side and taking aim once more.  
  
She fired, and missed completely.  
  
She fired again.  
  
The pistol clicked empty.  
  
She grabbed the door and pulled it shut, then rolled away, stopping when she bumped Madison.  
  
A split second later, another rifle bullet ripped through the door, missing her by inches. The engine roared as they accelerated.  
  
Another shot, shattering the driver’s side mirror. Cass swore.  
  
And then they were gone, racing down the street, well above the speed limit.  
  
Away from the hospital.  
  
The gun slid from Ashley’s fingers.  
  
She dropped her head to the floor of the van and sighed into her trembling hands.  
  
“Fuck.”


End file.
